


Some of These Days

by daredevilmoon



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Erotica, M/M, Pre-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daredevilmoon/pseuds/daredevilmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To everything there is a Season.</p><p>  <i>Thomas seemed to be rather intimate a thing, like a culmination of Philip's history in the guise of flesh and blood. He had the look of Oxford fairies, the voice of trade, the presence of a lord, and it was all too enrapturing.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely Duke-centric because he is just hideously fun to write. And I have an elaborate head-canon for him.

The air twisted around yet another waltz and Philip could have wept with boredom. He had been speaking for some time with a rather charming viscount, but the man had swirled off against a background of blonde hair and pink satin a song or two ago. Philip skirted the edges of the party, trying his best to avoid any of the lonesome young women making hungry eyes at any man without a partner.  
  
He'd come because he'd been under the impression that girl whose honour the party had been thrown for, Francesca Lonsworth, had a wild streak of charm borne of an Italian mother. Philip had spoken with her for some minutes and was soon under the impression such a patently false rumour could only have been originated through the brashness of the girl's mother. Francesca was pretty, in a swarthy sort of a way, but she was precisely as glass-eyed as the worst sorts of dullards. By virtue of situation, he had to make concessions, but he was not willing to be caught up with any of the bisque dolls he saw all too often at court, begat by Croesus or no.  
  
Instead, he amused himself by playing a rather ill-planned game: Every time one of the dolls looked as though she were coming over to him, he would lose himself in the press. If he escaped the doll's clutches without having to speak a word of denial to her, he rewarded himself with a glass of champagne. He was at least two sheets to the wind when Mary Crawley sidled up to him, looking slightly giddy.  
  
"If you waltzed me about for a song, do you suppose you'd enjoy yourself more than you are now?"  
  
"I very well may," he said with a smile. He liked Mary - if away from the diligent ears of her parents she was not a little unkind and quite amusing, traits which he found exceedingly rare in her sort.  
  
They took up at the start of the next song and what began as rather quite fun middled into something nearly harrowing, he regretting his latest glass. Mary quirked her eyebrows at him curiously but fell back into her contentment once he smiled. She was such a fool for him and he liked that about her best of all.  
  
The dancing faded to a brief stop and Mary looked at him coyly. "I do hope I've helped, Duke."  
  
"Most certainly you have. That dance is sure to be the highlight of my evening."  
  
The flattery heightened her features, but she responded by merely not-quite succeeding in stifling a grin at him as she charmed her way into another's arms.  
  
Philip turned heel and was very nearly run into by Mary's sister, who looked as startled to be at the proceeding as she was at nearly having knocked into a duke. "Oh, I-"  
  
"Quite all right," he interrupted and brushed past her. He wondered if that counted towards his game; he had been rather positive, he thought. In fact, he hadn't refused her a thing. It almost certainly did win him another.  
  
He found the nearest tray and plucked a glass from it, smiling perfunctorily at the footman without looking at him. He brought the rim to his mouth and scanned the room; he didn't even see that viscount. He wondered if the bastard had managed to duck out. As the rest of the crowd - they were familiar, but most all so hideously boring that he'd rather continue to drink to scandal rather than speak with them.  
  
Glass exchanged for a full one, he began to drink unearned champagne. His eyes wandered to the footman behind the tray and, as though being spited for cheating, nearly choked. The man looked at him briefly and then turned back to stare into the distance.  
  
Some bloody Jokanaan was serving drinks and that moment gave birth to Philip's first true thought of the world's injustices. He hastily emptied his glass and returned it to the tray.  
  
Philip could feel himself toeing the precipice of idiocy, could taste poor choices on the tip of his tongue. Though he k new which choice was the poorer; damned by himself if he didn't, by god and everyone else if he did - still, Philip decided with a firmness buoyed on bubbles of champagne, that he didn't need to live with god or anyone else. He was quite stuck with himself and he'd be damned if he were to let anything as flimsy as social niceties or Hell-fire spoil his chance at taking a chap like that to bed.  
  
"I say," he began, rather too loudly, "do you - do you work for this house?"  
  
The footman turned to him, curiosity only faintly registering at his brow. "No, Your Grace."  
  
"Being borrowed, are you?"  
  
"Yes, Your Grace."  
  
Silence fell for a moment as a small party gathered about them to refresh themselves at the man's platter and - then lingered a little longer than Philip would have liked. He turned back.  
  
"And where do you work?"  
  
"I work at Grantham House for the Season, Your Grace."  
  
"Oh, for the Crawleys? Yes. That's good. They're fine people. Don't you find?"  
  
"Of course, Your Grace." The man's expression remained stolid as ever, but amusement had found its way into his eyes.  
  
"Do you stay at the house you're being leant to or must you hasten away?"  
  
"We're staying here, as there's a dinner to help with tomorrow, Your Grace."  
  
"Are you familiar with the layout of this house?"  
  
"Somewhat, Your Grace."  
  
"I have an absolutely absurd question. Only, you see, I've forgotten where exactly the bachelor's corridor is. I'd hate to ask of my host later and look a fool - once you're up the stairs, in which direction is it?"  
  
"It's to the left, Your Grace."  
  
"Ah, yes, of course. As I said, absolutely absurd, but all I could remember was that my room was the third on the right and I'd have hated to stumble into some lady's chamber by mistake."  
  
Philip bestowed upon the footman a genuine smile, one creeping with excitement, which the other struggled to not return in some measure. He managed instead to duck his head once, in a tight nod, holding Philip's gaze until he'd brought his head up once more, whereupon his eyes slid back to the nothing which so enraptured all servants.  
  
Philip turned to the crowd and had the awful thought that someone who knew his mother might be among it. She did tend towards accumulating friends on the basis of their ability to act as her spies and they were all so loyal that he had wondered more than once if she wasn't actually paying them (which, given her incredible scope, would go a long way towards explaining the dwindled fortune).  
  
He grimaced in unease until he watched Mary Crawley dance by with an unknown partner. He caught her eye and gave her a wink. At that, she looked decidedly flustered and he could see her explaining the strange emotion away, without turning her eyes from him. Her partner turned around to catch Philip still watching her and frowned at him.  
  
Still, when the song was over Mary broke apart from her partner without much ado, leaving him looking entirely put out, to venture over to Philip. She stared at him expectantly, eyes all alight with nearly the same fire as he was sure his held.  
  
"You cheered me so," he began, softening his expression. "No one else could compare. I'll have you know I've not danced a step without you."  
  
"I do hope it was me rather than the dancing, then," she said, feigning abashedness. He did enjoy watching the art with which women lied. She laughed lightly, "Or the champagne."  
  
"Am I so obvious?"  
  
"It's rather fun. Everyone else is being so dull."  
  
"I'm thrilled to hear you don't think me dull."  
  
"Oh, I could never think you dull."  
  
The perk, he supposed, of having but a passing acquaintance, being seen like a character in a novel not read the way through. He found it rather amusing that she was so smitten in so obvious a way with someone like him; not least since he'd heard tell of her future swirling down the plughole with the shockingly dull Patrick Crawley. If Philip were a character in a novel, Patrick was straight from a Victorian moral lesson heard once too often. Philip would have extended sympathy if he hadn't found his own situation to be so much worse.  
  
"Would you care to dance again?"  
  
He slid in and placed his arm about her, took her hand before she had the chance to answer. He knew she wouldn't decline and she only nodded as she positioned herself. Suddenly, she laughed.  
  
"I hope I won't have to lead. You seem a bit unsteady."  
  
"I daresay you'd be quite capable of leading, wouldn't you? But I think I can manage. You make me feel so much steadier."  
  
Mary looked surpised, then wouldn't quite catch his gaze for the rest of the dance. He was being too forward, and he knew it even before he'd spoken his last sentiment, but he felt enormously magnanimous about bestowing kindnesses just then. He figured it would give her a bit of something to swoon to her bed over in the night, before she was expected to spend her eternity in cobwebs.

  



	2. Chapter 2

By dinner, Philip was considerably sobered and began to highly regret the fact as he watched the ladies leave the room; he didn't know how they managed it, but society men were always so much worse than society ladies.  
  
As though playing up to his thoughts, the surrounding men all pounced ravenously upon the subject of cricket. Philip focused his attention on his cigar and wondered at how much scotch would sit atop a full meal and a gallon of champagne before it all unbalanced.  
  
When the conversation turned to politics, a subject upon which everyone seemed hideously ill-informed, his silence was suddenly no longer accepted. "As a duke of the realm," was how more than one entreaty began (though, once, with a spectacular amount of derision from one utterly blotto elderly fellow Philip didn't recognise - then, at least, the entreaty was to be remembered).  
  
When pressed, Philip would merely restate or reprove the last statement that he recalled having heard. This would provoke an acceptable amount of humming in agreement or murmuring in dissent, each man apparently heedless to the fact that he needn't necessarily disagree with his own earlier statements when it suited the others.  
  
Lingering near the door was the footman who had struck Philip's fancy, wearing a face now less blank than a hard mask of disdain. Philip tried to catch his eye without resorting to an unblinking stare, but only succeeded when one of the men had fallen into violently arguing against his own opinion when prompted. The footman finally glanced over in time to catch Philip sliding his hand over his mouth, briefly unable to swallow a smile. For a blink, it looked as though the footman couldn't suppress his own glee; he looked down immediately and when he brought his head back up he wore his previous expression, though less finely wrought.  
  
Philip wanted to go to his room immediately, but more than that he wanted to force everyone else into their rooms. He begged off cards to achieve part of his goal, but after that it was merely an issue of willing the others to sleep.  
  
He dismissed his valet after being dressed for bed and sat for some time before the low fire, staring at a book that he wasn't reading. His eyes would sometimes linger at the door, but any time the house groaned or someone stirred in the hall, he would snap his eyes back to the words at his lap. He was unwilling to appear quite so desperate to be amused by a footman, even if said footman did side-line as a saint.  
  
Eventually - finally - his door did open and he made a point, to himself, of focusing a little harder on the book. _Very romantic and extraordinary and ridiculous_ and that was quite clearly enough of that. He shut the book without holding the page and set it on the table beside him.  
  
The footman leaned against the door, hands lingering behind his back on the knob, as though preparing to bolt. Philip smiled his most winning smile and found it returned with only little less reserve than earlier in the day.  
  
Then - _god_ , Philip was glad to have invited him, just suddenly and overwhelmingly glad. He was like marble with veins of blood, soaked mostly at the curve of his mouth and, oh, men like this should be, by right, in museums; then, in bedrooms, lovers were gifted the ability to re-sculpt him again and again in sin.  
  
"Come here," Philip said, beckoning him over. "What's your name?"  
  
"Thomas, Your Grace."  
  
"You can have a drink, if you'd like." He gestured towards the decanter. "It's only sub-par brandy, but it does the trick just the same."  
  
"Thank you, Your Grace."  
  
"You needn't say that after everything. Not in here."  
  
Thomas gave him a sharp nod and walked to the table where the decanter was positioned. Philip watched as he poured himself a rather hearty helping and proceeded to gulp about three fingers in a quick draught. He swallowed hard, collar scraping his Adam's apple, but his expression held.  
  
"That was rather impressive," Philip said with a laugh. "Don't worry," he added quickly, upon seeing Thomas go red - whether from drink or embarrassment, he wasn't sure. "I really don't care how much you have; it's not mine. They may think I'm a drunk, but I think I'll survive the scandal. Would you believe that I've had worse things said about me?"  
  
Thomas smirked behind the the last of his brandy. "I think I might."  
  
"How unkind."  
  
Philip walked over to where he stood and trailed his gaze over the man's body. He was made to be lingeringly undressed and Philip suddenly laughed and sighed, "You must let me undress you."  
  
"You can't take much off; I can't stay long."  
  
"I know."  
They never could.  
  
Having prompted the other to turn around, Philip traced the smooth expanse of his back down to the curve from which the tails of the jacket fell. He smoothed out the shoulders before he finally drew the jacket away, letting Thomas take it and place it over the back of a chair. Thomas stepped closer to him, but Philip moved his hand between them and flicked his nail against the hard plastic at Thomas's chest.  
  
"You're not keeping that on." He reached up to the tie and pulled at one of the ends until its shape faded and fell. Thomas shooed his hands away and began to undo his own collar while Philip drifted to the vest's buttons.  
  
With the vest gone, neatly folded on the chair, and the other accoutrements piled on the table, there was an awkward moment of struggling with the tie at the back of the shirt front before Thomas was finally down to shirtsleeves.  
  
"Better?" He asked.  
  
Philip smiled. "Yes. But take off your shoes."  
  
"You don't want for much, do you?"  
  
"Nothing unreasonable," he responded, watching Thomas slip them off. Still sitting on the edge of the chair, he untied Philip's robe. As though finally realising what the aim of all of this was, Thomas's expression changed as they their eyes caught. He stood and pushed the robe off.  
  
"Go on," he said quietly, pressing his fingers into Philip's sternum and leading him backward. When his legs bumped against the bed, Philip sat down without a word; he was enjoying being guided.  
  
Thomas knelt down and removed Philip's shoes, keeping his eyes on what he was doing as though it took all of his effort. He slid his hands up Philip's legs, stopping when he reached his inner thighs. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against the small strip of flesh between his navel and waistband.  
  
Before Philip even had time to respond, Thomas was standing over him to catch him in a kiss. A hand skirted Philip's chest and stomach, sliding his fingertips just beneath the top of his pyjama trousers.  
  
"Let's lie down," Philip said, reluctantly breaking from Thomas's mouth. Thomas pushed him onto his back with a startling force, provoking a laugh. Philip grabbed hold of Thomas's braces and pulled the man over him.  
  
Thomas kissed his neck to his collarbone, fingers slipping lower but still only teasing the idea of touching his cock. Philip tugged Thomas's shirt and undershirt from his trousers and slid his hands beneath, touching as much bare skin as he could. He rolled his hips to no avail, Thomas moving his hand up in time just enough to evade him.  
  
"Christ," Philip muttered into Thomas's hair. He reached down and undid the buttons of the other's trousers, reaching beneath and giving a single rough squeeze to his erection.  
  
Thomas moved into the touch, thigh meeting Philip's cock as he did so. He reached between them and pushed the pyjama bottoms down enough to grant freedom of movement, wrapping his fingers around Philip. He stroked his length slowly, despite the increasing pace of the hips beneath him, and ran his thumb around the head. Philip put an arm around his back and moved so that their pricks met through fabric.  
  
"Don't," Thomas laughed. He sat back and Philip sighed in disappointment as the hand disappeared from around him. Thomas shoved his braces over his shoulders, trousers and underwear to his thighs before resuming his earlier position. Philip doubted that either of them could think but for the bolt of elation which ran through them as a surely singular entity at the feeling of flesh on flesh.  
  
They moved in rhythm, cocks bumping hands and bellies and one another as the air became alive with little sounds of pleasure. Philip could feel the heat of Thomas's mouth against his neck, the nails scratching at what skin was touched - it was an array of pleasure that was simply dizzying and, with a sudden decision, he sank his fingers into Thomas's hair and pulled his head up to watch him. The expression he wore was so at odds with the earlier mask that Philip felt a spark of possession creep over him - this, this beauty so undone, was his. He pulled Thomas into a rough kiss.  
  
Philip came first, with a groan that was only half stifled by Thomas's mouth. Thomas shushed him dazedly, continuing to fist his prick until it softened before moving it to himself. Philip ran his thumb through the ejaculate at his stomach and, in a way he thought rather daring, brought it Thomas's slackened mouth. In what was undeniably the most erotic thing he'd seen, Thomas sucked the proferred digit into his mouth without hesitation, running his teeth over the pad and kissing it as he pulled back.  
  
Philip rocked the two of them together, grabbing at Thomas's arse with one hand and using the other to massage his balls and the skin beneath. Thomas took Philip's hand in his own and wrapped the both of them tightly around his cock as he came, quick staccato sighs burning against Philip's skin.  
  
Thomas collapsed to the side and Philip lingered his fingers against his hip, reluctant to break contact. Thomas looked over himself and frowned, running his hand down the front of his shirt. "I should have let you undress me a bit more," he said, a strain of humour wound through his voice.  
  
"I did try," Philip said, shrugging. With a falsely sweet smile, he turned over onto the other's body and kissed him. Thomas pulled away and shook his head, wearing a look of amusement.  
  
"You're a bastard."  
  
"You were already a mess," Philip countered, trailing his lips along the strong lines of Thomas's face.  
  
"You didn't need to make it worse." Despite his protestations, he traced Philip's sides with his palms and held him in place.  
  
"You'll forgive me," came the reply, buried in Thomas's neck. "I'll make it up to you."  
  
"How's that?"  
  
They locked eyes for a moment before Philip said, "I won't be here tomorrow night." He watched Thomas's face occlude and his gaze fade inward. He wrapped his hand around Thomas's jaw and ran a thumb over his lips, which was allowed for but not responded to. "When are you going back to Grantham House?"  
  
Thomas's brows drew together. "What?"  
  
"Isn't that where you work?"  
  
"Yes. The day after tomorrow."  
  
"I'll write you," he said, ceasing his ministrations against Thomas's mouth and replacing his thumb with his lips. This provoked reaction after only a moment's hesitation. "I'd like to see you again."  
  
"Really?" The guile dropped into confusion and left him with a startlingly open expression. It remained only for a blink, but it had made Philip feel a curious tension work its way through his insides.  
  
"Surely you've had men after you before."  
  
"They don't invite me 'round."  
  
"You've gone to bed with fools."  
  
"You sound very sure that I've stopped," Thomas said with a smirk. He shifted enough to move Philip off of him so that he could begin to dress.  
  
Philip moved up the bed and watched him button and tie himself into his livery, with hurried but sharp motions. When he was finished, his clothing was as precise as it had been beforehand, though when Philip thought of the traces of their fuck hidden behind the shirt front he felt a stirring at his prick.  
  
"You really need to go now," he said, laughing at himself. "If you stay any longer I'll keep you the night."  
  
Thomas nodded, but walked over to the bed and sat on the edge. He smiled softly at Philip, who watched with interest as he reached once more below the pyjamas and slowly ran his fist up and down the length of his cock, squeezing and twisting until he was achingly hard.  
  
"Something else to remember me by," Thomas murmured, voice rough to distraction.  
  
"I didn't," he began, losing the words as Thomas gave an almost too-rough squeeze. "Didn't think I'd forget you." Philip was torn between shutting his eyes at the feeling of Thomas's hand and watching the flush overwhelm his face. Then, as Philip's eyes flickered to a close, the hand disappeared from him.  
  
A nervous laugh escaped him as he tried to take in the recent progression of events. Thomas was staring at him, in an almost disconcertingly intense manner, and brought his wet fingers to his own mouth and drew them in, one by one. Philip found himself entirely unable to react, an increasing fog casting itself over his eyes as he watched Thomas stand and begin to cross the room.  
  
"I look forward to serving Your Grace again," he said, sounding far more steady than he looked, as he exited the room without a backward glance  
  
Philip lay for a moment, swaddled in a daze. He had spent most of his free time since having first seeing the footman imagining the two of them entwined, but no where in his catalogue of fantasies had been found anything nearing their final scene. His cock gave an impatient twitch at the thought of it.  
  
As he brought himself off, he mimicked the steadiness of Thomas's hand, trying to not lose himself in a frantic pace. He wanted this measured, deliberate - he wanted to slowly draw his orgasm out as his mind relished images of his secret idol. This strange saint whose hands and mouth would do such absolutely wicked things, the only saint likely to be so damned, the only saint he was likely to worship.


	3. Chapter 3

Before the previous night, Philip would have spent the proceeding days cursing the entire procession to his friends, blasting the simpletons he was forced to commune with. Now he had the idea that he wouldn't - wouldn't mention it at all, in fact.  
  
A certain amount of braggadocio insofar as conquests goes was encouraged, if not necessitated, but he felt as though the whole situation was rather a castle in air and he had absolutely no intention of spoiling it with attempts to tie it to anything so feeble as reality. He didn't want anyone to form false images of the footman - of _Thomas_ \- because he seemed to be rather intimate a thing, like a culmination of Philip's history in the guise of flesh and blood. He had the look of Oxford fairies, the voice of trade, the presence of a lord, and it was all too enrapturing.  
  
At luncheon, Philip made a point of turning his mind's eye to Thomas instead of letting his gaze linger. In a self-conscious flight of fancy, he tried the crown of incubus upon the slick black hair, testing its weight against the previous coronet of saint. A thrill at the idea of having a demon so entirely his own sent shocks to his fingertips and a flush to his cheeks. He quickly drew himself away from that line and bathed himself in the ice of conversation.  
  
On the brief journey to his residence, he began to lament the prescription of his days and heed of etiquette. In a kinder world, he'd snatch the footman from his employ and drown the both of them in the indolence of summer from within his flat. In the world as it was, he would keep up appearances and the hunt for a tolerable heiress, taking Thomas to bed whenever the man didn't work.  
  
So he hoped.  
  
Thomas had seemed somewhat put off at the start by that line of inquiry, but perhaps it was only down to the oddness of the request. Indeed, even to Philip it was _odd_. If he were looking for someone to accompany him to bed, it was never to _his_ bed. Indeed, beds were typically superfluous. Yet the idea of Thomas in a club (or, god forbid, a cottage) was incongruous in a way devoid of charm. He didn't just want the idea of the man to be unsullied, he wanted the fact of him to belong to himself alone. He wanted the image he had conjured of Thomas to be brought to life as his personal Galatea, unsullied by the invariable corrosion of others.  
  
He'd seen ideals corroded and an abortive attempt at an adult affair burst before his eyes, but that had been a situation entirely bred of a flight of what he now termed 'youthful folly' and what he still thought of as 'gross idiocy'.  
  
Some years prior, he had hired the most jarringly beautiful man he'd ever seen as his valet, firing the retainer of his father apropos of nothing. Within a day he was reduced to wondering how the man managed to dress himself. Within the week his mother had swooped in from the country and relieved the valet of his position before Philip had woken up. She cut off his arguments with the simple: "Boys like that are how men like you go to prison."  
  
That was the only thing she had, or would, ever say clearly on the subject, and it had shocked him into silence. He'd been so visibly startled by the entire situation that she hadn't even stayed to keep an eye on him, leaving after she'd hired him a new man. Her physical absence did nothing to detract from her heavy presence on his thoughts, however, and he barely looked at another man for months.  
  
Since, hackles of self-preservation had been raised. He was no more likely to indite Uranism of itself than he had been, but he was also unwilling to fall martyr to it. That said, his inclinations towards avoiding such a fate were not to blind him to opportunities that presented themselves.  
  
Thomas had presented himself as a dream, that was the thing. He'd been the only spot in the evening where the haze was cleared, as everyone else seemed to blend into one another by virtue of having confused having a title with having a personality. He certainly seemed to have a personality and also seemed to have thoughts wherein the fact of his beauty wasn't central, which bade well for his intelligence.  
  
Philip contemplated the man's merits as he fiddled a pen between his fingers, staring at a piece of paper before him at his desk. He felt like a schoolboy trying to write a love poem. It hardly mattered what was said - he needn't (indeed, shouldn't) be romantical, yet the idea welled in him that if he were the sort for poetry his thoughts at the present were what would spur him to it.  
  
He sat the pen down and wondered at the sense of attempting to carry this thing on to something beyond their enjoyably shared hour. He rose from the desk and paced about, straightening frames as he went as though he had an audience.  
  
His friends spanned the spectrum of those who spent far too much time dockside and others who spent far too much time writing letters to "W.H.", yet he found himself stranded between the two. He liked fucking attractive men without ever learning their names, he was hardly likely to deny that, but he did want to find someone to love in the manner he had spent so much of his youth reading about. That lack of genuine, happy love often left him under the impression that he had spent the majority of his life preparing for an examination which he still hadn't been given.  
  
Though it hadn't come to fruition, he did feel the idea of Thomas provoking a desire to love. Instead of words, he had yet only pressed needful impressions upon Thomas's skin and the muse who sat at his desk with a cocked brow hadn't found herself even fully called upon as yet. The reticence that crept over him when he had tried to write was overwhelmed by Euterpe's hand slipping into his own like a glove, enacting a wicked play of touching the footman until he moaned like an exquisite instrument under Philip's fingers.  
  
Having been shoved on a wave of desire back to his desk, he wrote several feverish pages, the sort of which he most certainly was not going to send to someone he didn't know. Still, with fantasies put to paper he felt a little clearer of mind. He folded that particular missive and put it into his pocket.  
  
What he settled on was the barest of bones entreaties as to when Thomas had time off. Reading it back, he was embarrassed at having spent so much time fretting over the absolute simplest of requests. It mightn't be responded to, but that was a fairly unlikely prospect; the allure of having a duke was not one to be glossed over.  
  
He sealed his entreaty in an envelope before he had the chance to read it again.  
  
That aside, he meandered his way through his remaining correspondence, accepting invitations he'd rather decline and declining to comment upon situations he'd rather discuss. Most of them needn't have gone out until the following day, so they sat with their half-written responses atop them while he poked at his bookshelves.  
  
All of his options seemed either banal or appropriate to the point of using it as a prop to a scene on the stage. He wondered at the prospect of lending Thomas something shocking, imbuing him with ideas to be enacted. At this, he wondered at the ideas which Thomas _had_ enacted and lost his reason for standing, letting himself sink to the couch. He eyed his desk from where he sat and tried to forge an outline of his coming days, hoping that they would provide distraction enough that he wouldn't keep falling into the well of his latest fantasy.  
  
He rarely found himself out of activities to spend (or, more honestly, waste) his time upon. He liked to imagine that he could, if he so desired, avoid them - indeed, he probably could but at too dear a cost to spend. What propelled him into the shoes of his father were his mother's hinted threats. She had no tangible hold over him, but she was fond of dropping into conversation, particularly any conversation which touched upon Philip's 'peculiarities', how much she _did_ miss the Season and perhaps _this_ would be her year to rejoin?  
  
She was not fond of the city, preferring to spend her time dragging the visage of Miss Havisham into modernity by way of Crowborough, but he was under no illusion that she wouldn't stay in London to spite him. A dull party the length of an evening was infinitely preferable to a dull existence the length of a summer, wherein his mother could press any number "suitable" friends and would-be brides upon him, all uniquely remarkable for their comparability to paste.  
  
He didn't know where she found these people and, frankly, counted it among his chiefest attributes that he had so far managed to avoid wherever it was that they congregated.  
  
Though each invitation he was strong-armed into accepting did pose a risk.  
  
Fortunately, as he was still parked upon the couch hoping the coming days wouldn't be the ones during which he stumbled upon this den of dullards, his man came in bearing a post-card. The front was a strange drawing of some fat little cherub with a devious look about him, the back was simply:  
  
 _Anything(one?) interesting? Regale me. If not, come anyway._  
  
So at least that was one evening pleasantly filled.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The poem that is mentioned is the absolutely beautiful _Revolt of Islam_. There's a brief quote later on that's from Keats's _Endymion_ (I was in a Romantic mood, what can I say?).  
>  2\. I don't know about the historical viability of Philip having a flat as opposed to using his London house, but I figured it would probably be reasonable enough, considering. I based the idea of its look off of Clive's in the film "Maurice".

Days drifted along in much the same vein as they had done, though now with the presence of a pinhead of anticipation growing larger at the passage of each night. Philip drew his crowd about him as much as he could when not otherwise engaged, cleansing himself any traces left of the monotonous dances and dinners. Interesting women were either engaged or as badly off as he, but there seemed to be no shortage of wealthy idiots being shoved in his direction with their hands readily extended. He'd spent the majority of his week playing nice with them while imagining the days of large-hooped skirts and their propensity for knocking over candles.  
  
Assuming the visions of fire never lit up his eyes, he was absolutely unimpeachable in behaviour. A woman he knew to have been a friend of his mother's had even once drawn up to him and said How pleasant it was to see that he'd made such an improvement of himself since the last Season. Unspoken words had swelled his tongue, but he had smiled at her graciously, silently, until she milled away.  
  
He had also been quite pleased at how firmly he had been keeping to his vow of silence regarding Thomas, but before long he eventually had absolutely no choice but to break it in self defence. Philip had found himself stranded across an emptied table from a friend-of-a-friend and the man continuously pressed him on how his luck in men and women alike could be so poor without his inviting it. Annoyed, and hoping the man was drunk or uninterested enough to not remember the confession on the morrow, he had spilled the poetry of his find like a tipped glass. The words came out in sudden rush and then abated quickly, ending with the thought that had grown to obsess him since he'd first seen their object:  
  
"He looks like Jokanaan."  
  
The other man's permanently cocked brow raised even further towards his hairline and he snorted. "So it can only end happily for you," was the amused response.  
  
Philip realised with alarming clarity that that particular titbit would be repeated to all of their mutual acquaintances. He didn't disguise the disdain that dappled his gaze as bit out, "How is that you'd go about improving my lot, since you're apparently so well-versed in it?"  
  
"There's no need to work yourself into a lather; I'm sure your friend is lovely. Though, really, what you need," he said, punctuating himself with a drink, "is a Lesbian heiress with an Italian villa." The man shrugged, as though this were some easily-attained fix which Philip had been absurdly remiss to overlook.  
  
"Indeed," Philip said, rising to take his leave before he was made to feel even more of an ass by someone who wore the prize ribbon. "Well, perhaps I'll run into one on my way home. Good night."  
  
  
  
  
Despite the bad impression which he was inevitably going to be making by doing so, Philip had excused his man for the day when Thomas was expected. Godfrey was not unfamiliar with such requests, but had never made any sign of recognition towards their end. Indeed, he always showed a reserved pleasure at being given unexpected time to wile away in London. It left Philip feeling rather generous despite the ulterior motives.  
  
Having returned from luncheon, Philip spent his brief time wrapped around a book, letting himself become lost in the grass-and-heart paths hewn by Shelley. He was never much for most poets, but there was a fondness of feeling which left him hopelessly cleaved to Shelley during the summer months.  
  
 _\- and Wisdom had unrolled_  
 _The clouds which hide the gulf of mortal woe,--_  
 _To few can she that warning vision show--_  
 _For I loved all things with intense devotion;_  
 _So that when Hope's deep source in fullest flow,_  
 _Like earthquake did uplift the stagnant ocean_  
 _Of human thoughts--mine shook beneath the wide emotion-  
_

A brass knock just echoing from from down the hall led him quickly back to the world in which he resided. Moving a tad slowly, Philip made his way to the door, hesitant lest he open it to anyone unexpected. No such ill fortune.  
  
In the sunlight, Thomas's colouring exposed the beauty of its true simplicity - very white, black, red, blue. Nothing was allotted in half-measures and he was shockingly lovely, even standing as he was in a wordless sea of surprise. Philip paused for a moment, unthinking, before he stepped aside and let the him in.  
  
"Yes, I know, " Philip said in response to the inquisitive look he was being given, "but I'm the only one here. My man's half-day was the same as yours, if you would believe."  
  
Thomas's eyes stuck at various points on the rather oppressively decorated walls and bounced along frames until he finally came to a stop at Philip, who had been watching in amusement. "Hullo."  
  
"Your suit's nicer than I would have expected," Philip said, wondering why as he did. It wasn't nice, though it fit well and wasn't some garish colour or awful tweed, but the subject seemed an altogether safer a beginning than 'you'd not believe the sort of things you've gotten up to in my dreams'.  
  
"I think that's called 'damning with faint praise'," was the response, said through a trace of a frown.  
  
"I didn't intend to." He took Thomas's hat from atop his head and put it on the table behind him, then slipped his fingers into the 'v' of his vest and tugged him into a kiss. "Will you forgive me?"  
  
"You've an awful lot of making up to do, what with this and last time."  
  
"I suppose I have. But I'm awfully forgiveable." Philip pressed Thomas into the wall, haloing him with a landscape sketch, and went to bring their mouths together again before an absurd question came to mind, one he simply couldn't do away with. "First, you have to answer me something," he said, voice light.  
  
"What?" Thomas ran a hand down Philip's back.  
  
"How many of Lady Mary's suitors have you been to bed with? I have to know."  
  
Thomas gave a sharp, genuine laugh and a grin transformed his features. "Less than you think if you're asking that."  
  
"More's the pity for those poor fools."  
  
He kissed into Thomas's smile until it faded around his tongue. For a time they remained, palms pressed under coats, over arses, against jaws, or into hair without haste, leisurely cataloguing the feel and the flavour of the lover against them.  
  
Philip stepped away, breaking their mouths apart at the last possible moment. He slipped his hand into Thomas's and led him out of the hall, heading towards the bedroom.  
  
In introducing someone new around his flat, he was always given a strange, new sense of its impact. What had faded into something of a pleasant nest to him did have a tendency to make people feel put upon by the weight of activity which hung from the walls. He'd been informed that it felt vaguely threatening, like you'd shared Alice's cake and everything seemed a bit too small.  
  
"I have an idea this isn't what you were expecting," he said suddenly, turning around to Thomas. "This isn't the House. Well - obviously this isn't the House. This is just my flat. So I've a bit more freedom to do as I like without feeling as though anyone were watching." Naturally, it was also substantially less money than opening up the entire House and letting loose its menagerie of servants.  
  
"It's a bit...there's a lot, isn't there?" Thomas gestured vaguely around him.  
  
"I like to have things to look at. And it helps conversation if I'm stuck with a stranger."  
  
"All right. Who's that, then?" He pointed to a small painting of a rather delicate-looking woman.  
  
"I didn't mean you. But that's, er," he paused for a moment. Some of the portraits were family, but some were just people whose look had struck his fancy and he had never been invested enough to remember the difference off-handedly. "Some Duchess or other, I suppose." He smiled a little apologetically. "Usually I just make something up if someone asks."  
  
"Do I not warrant a story?"  
  
"I didn't think you'd care if I couldn't remember, but I can tell you a story."  
  
"Go on."  
  
Philip came up behind him and wrapped his arms tightly about Thomas's waist, resting their heads together as best he could so they both looked at the painting. "A very distant cousin. She was Marie Antoinette's lover and only just escaped France with her head intact. She landed in England and stayed here, swearing off all things working class or French. She dined on curries and hired great ladies for maids. Many years later, the ladies had quite enough of her peculiarities and they drew lots for one to stab her while she bathed."  
  
Thomas turned his head so that they looked at one another and raised his eyebrows. "That's almost unbelievable," he said, smiling.  
  
"My family history could fill far more interesting volumes than Debrett's," Philip agreed. He kissed his temple, then straightened and loosed his hands from about Thomas's waist. "Come on. I have a lot of forgiveness to find, haven't I?  
  
"You do, yes."  
  
With this, they continued the few steps to the bedroom, all the while Philip was amusedly removing the both of their coats and undoing his own tie. Once in, he tossed the clothing onto the dresser and moved to rushedly loose any securing features of Thomas's clothes.  
  
"Fancy, being valeted by a Duke."  
  
"I'm not valeting you," Philip said, catching his eyes with a smile. "I'm unwrapping you."  
  
"Is that very different?" Thomas brushed his fingers through the hair at the Philip's temple, not bothering to offer assistance.  
  
"The intention's usually different."  
  
Everything unfastened, Philip moved away from him and lowered himself to the armchair at the corner of the room.  
  
Thomas eyed him. "Are you not going to undress?"  
  
"Not now. You finish." Philip watched with growing interest as a slight flush bloomed high on Thomas's cheekbones and he didn't respond, either in movement or word, for a moment. "Consider this fair play for how you left me last time." Thomas smiled slightly and continued.  
  
Watching him undress himself, Philip was once more driven to fancies that he'd been gifted the revelation of Pygmalion watching his beloved statue turn to flesh before his eyes as more was revealed. He couldn't help himself from wrapping Thomas so tightly in all of history; the man seemed so inherently a part of it that he must have existed for long enough to have been written about by all those who doted upon beauty.  
  
 _A thing of beauty is a joy forever_ and - "You're the most beautiful thing I've seen. God's sake, come here."  
  
When Thomas reached him, Philip stayed as he was and pressed a hand up Thomas's stomach, running the hair in the wrong direction and watching the skin prickle beneath. His fingertips met as they slid around to the small of Thomas's back and pulled him closer still, curving his grip around Thomas's hipbones, thumbs pressing into the skin along their edges.  
  
Philip looked up at him and saw his eyes awash in black and the flush creeping down his neck, marvelling at how he was so a work of art coming to life. The grip of Philip's left hand tightened at the hip and he brought the other around the base of Thomas's half-erect prick. He pulsed his hand slowly, caressing the underside of the growing length with his thumb, and could hear the breath above him slow to an unsteady pace. Thomas rested his hand on Philip's shoulder and leaned further into the touch.  
  
"Hold still," Philip said, quietly. He ran his circled fingers to the end of Thomas's prick, pulling back his foreskin as he ran the hand backward once more, then pressed the flat of his tongue against the exposed tip. Thomas gasped a sound of surprise and bent over him, bracing his hands on the chair's back.  
  
Philip half laughed before taking the head into his mouth as his hand continued its tantalisingly slow ministrations along the shaft. His own cock began to lament its constriction beneath his trousers and he moaned, increasing the pace and intensity of his movements so that his mouth and hand met in quick succession. Thomas's hips jerked forward unexpectedly and the tip of his cock bumped against Philip's throat, catching him off-guard, and he choked as he tightened his fingers further over Thomas's hip, hard enough to hold him, to bruise.  
  
Thomas's hands dropped from the chair and groped into the back of Philip's vest, strangled sounds overwhelming his breathing. Philip felt him shiver and still, coming off with little sobs that seemed to echo down Philip's throat as he swallowed his release. 

Thomas stilled and quieted until all either of them could hear was the hammering of his heart. His hands flexed over Philip's back, fingering the skin beneath his shirt and Philip pulled his mouth away. Philip leaned in once more to place a kiss on the base of Thomas's softening cock. He pushed him away a step, smiling. "I hope all is forgiven," he said, the lightness of his tone vibrating over the lust of the timbre.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Not only forgiven, but forgotten," he said with a shaky sort of laugh. He shifted to undo his trousers and freed his erection from its pained restraint. "Would you do that to me?" Thomas still looked a little dazed, though not discomfited at the idea of reciprocating.  
  
"I've never - "  
  
"It really doesn't matter," Philip immediately interrupted. "I just want your mouth on me." He couldn't bear the thought of it not being - god, his mouth was so -  
  
"Yes, fine."  
  
Thomas stepped as close as he had been, then moved onto his knees between Philip's legs and began to mimic the earlier movements performed upon him. Philip ran his fingers through Thomas's hair, careful to not tighten his hold. The sight of Thomas's eyes latched to his own as he tentatively stroked his tongue along his prick was very nearly enough; his cock had been leaking in sympathy since Thomas had come off into his mouth. Thomas wrapped his lips around Philip's head, and watching his cheeks hollow through to the red of his lips, the wonderful feeling of his heat like nothing else.  
  
A mumbled "Jesus Christ" and re-covering himself was all Philip could manage for a few minutes after. By the time Philip finally lolled his head in Thomas's direction, he had gone to the pile of his crumpled clothing and nearly finished dressing.  
  
"Do you know when your next half-day is?" Philip asked. He felt his heart gave a silly little skip as he watched Thomas return to his statue, anything delicious and vulgar hidden smartly beneath his suit.  
  
Thomas shook his head, brushing his hair back into place with his fingers. "Not yet."  
  
"Would you see me again?"  
  
"You need to ask after all that?" He asked, incredulity buoying the words. "Yes. Obviously."  
  
Philip smiled to himself and ran his nails absently along the arms of the chair. "There's scotch there," he said suddenly, pointing in its direction. "You should have some before you go."  
  
Thomas nodded, finishing the final buttons of his dressing before he went to pour himself a glass. Philip walked over to him, once he stood before the decanter, and put his arms about his waist once more as Thomas took a drink. Thomas turned around, not breaking the grip surrounding him, and gave Philip a scotch-flavoured kiss.  
  
"I'm sure I taste obscene," Philip said, taking the glass from Thomas's hand and taking a swallow. He placed it on the table behind Thomas and kissed him again. "You'll have to write to tell me."  
  
"Tell you how obscene you taste? I think I could manage that, if you'd like."  
  
"No, that's the sort of thing I want to hear you say," Philip laughed, pressing a soft bite against Thomas's neck. "Write about your half-day." He pulled away and they stilled beneath one another's gaze. Philip found Thomas observing his expression with rapt interest before he allowed it to creep over his own face. "What wonderful luck I've had in finding you," Philip said, enraptured at Thomas's mimicry, "You really are so beautiful."  
  
Thomas's face took on an entirely unique expression before his brows drew together some. "What's your name?"  
  
"Philip."  
  
"And can I call you that?"  
  
"I don't think that's the thing likely to knock the world off its axis, do you?" Philip reached for the glass and took another drink, placing it back into Thomas's hand.  
  
"You never know," he responded from behind the scotch, shrugging. He set the glass behind him.  
  
"Try it and see if we survive."  
  
Thomas laughed low in his throat, then said, "I like that you taste like my prick, Philip."  
  
Philip's mouth opened, flounderingly lost for words. "Well," he finally managed, tilting his head in amused surprise, "if anything were going to end the world, that would have been it. Yet here we are."  
  
"What wonderful luck."


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn't until several days after Thomas's visit that Philip had realised the scope of mis-step regarding the confession to the stranger. He was sat at a nearly-smart café across from a more eccentric acquaintance of his, whose endless barrage of cigarettes provoked disapproving glances from passers-by.  
  
Gaby was somewhere in her twenties and had never been brought out, due to a resigned father and the lack of any interested relatives, to say nothing of any whom were concerned. As such, she was left to drift without anchor in London's undertow. She and Philip had washed upon a shared shore when her brother decided that the time had come to put away childish things, which the both of them had been rather surprised to find themselves included among. They had each found a sympathetic ear in the other and had remained firm friends since the Crisis.  
  
That said, there wasn't a single friend Philip could count who he didn't occasionally regret having met and while the instances were fewer with Gaby than with most, when they arose they tended to loom large.  
  
"Can I paint your chap?"  
  
The words were spoken so suddenly and with such precision that Philip's first inclination was to duck from their path. He paused mid-drink, cup to his mouth, and stared at her. For her part, she appeared to have no interest in his reaction, having asked it and then fled the scene of his expressions, refocusing her attention towards her coffee.  
  
"Come again?"  
  
"Roddie said your chap was very striking. I was wondering if you'd introduce me."  
  
"He would hardly know. And no, I won't _introduce_ you."  
  
"Well, I'm hardly likely to steal him away, am I?" She looked up in time to catch the fading end of the scowl he was reigning back in. "Oh, there's hardly need to get self-important. And it's rather late for secrets. Though If you didn't want anyone to know, you oughtn't have told bloody Oliver, of all people. The man's like god: he never forgets a confession."  
  
"I'd never met him before," Philip defended lamely. Oliver - he recalled now having heard tell of the man's penchant for being an ungodly gossip, but hadn't connected the history to the face. He cursed himself. "He kept needling me and I couldn't help it. It was that or throwing my drink on him and he didn't seem worth the wasted champagne."  
  
"He certainly isn't," she said, then looked at him through her eyelashes in an almost flirtatious manner. "Still, you needn't be upset. Everyone thinks it's rather sweet that you've got a secret sweetheart."  
  
Though her bluntness could wear on him at times, Gaby's tendency to speak of everything with a simplicity that implied it were as appropriate for a late-night tête-à-tête as over tea with the vicar was like bringing a bouquet to your nose during a jaunt through the city.  
  
"I'm glad everyone approves," he said, bordering dangerously on meaning it.  
  
"What sort of fellow is he?"  
  
"I don't actually know all that much about him. We met not too long ago at one of those ghastly coming-out affairs."  
  
"Apparently it wasn't too ghastly. Servant or someone grand as yourself?"  
  
"One doesn't necessarily preclude the other."  
  
"A servant in need of a savior, then. How romantic," she ragged. Her hands flitted over the the rolled sides of her hair which was rapidly frizzing away from its style in the heat. "What's he look like?"  
  
Philip paused for a moment, trying to find an explanation which didn't sound like he'd pinned down the words at a Bacchanal. "He looks like something someone might have dreamt up," was what he settled on. He finished the last of his coffee and said, "You'd love to paint him."  
  
Gaby's eyes widened a little as they trailed the smoke of her cigarette into the distance. She gave a small laugh and said, "Oh, lord, I don't want to paint him; I'm still trying to find a tart of Roddie's to fashion into Boadicea. I just wanted to hear you talk about him."

 

 

 

Thomas seemed to drift into the flat along with the air, resting upon Philip as pleasurably. He'd wasted no time in joining the lines of their bodies together, slinking his hand up Philip's spine and lightly snapping the line of his braces. They let the silence weigh over them and left glancing touches near to bared skin, never letting themselves quite meet. Thomas rolled his hips into Philip, whose head knocked softly into the wall at the feeling. He watched the ink slowly seep into the blue of Thomas's eyes and finally pressed his lips to rise of Thomas's throat above his collar.  
  
"Wait," Thomas said quietly. A smile threatened the corners of his mouth as he buried a hand in Philip's hair and turned his head to the side. With his other hand, he reached out and tapped a forefinger against a milky portrait. "Who's that?"  
  
"That's - ah-" his voice caught as Thomas moved against him once more. "You're rather eager, aren't you?"  
  
"It's been a trying week."  
  
"Well, I'm more than happy to take your mind off it," he said, running his fingers along the edge of Thomas's hairline. "I actually do know who that's meant to be: it's some French tart done up as Madame de Pompadour. A friend of mine painted it and sneaked it on my wall. She'll be thrilled to hear you have such fine tastes."  
  
"You tell people about this?" Thomas's brows came together lightly, expression not quite working its way through the desire weighing heavily about his eyes.  
  
"No," Philip replied, not sure if that was the response which Thomas would want. "She asked and I said I was secreting about with a dream."  
  
Thomas pulled back a little and ducked his head down, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Philip's shoulder. He dropped his hands to Philip's hips and rocked them against his own.  
  
"Stop. God- stop," Philip said breathily, mustering the majority of his will to move Thomas to arm's length. "I have an awful feeling you're going to break away and rush out the door."  
  
"That were worse for me than you."  
  
"I don't doubt. That only shows me that your sadism has a farther reach than your dislike of masochism, which is - it's certainly interesting, but I don't especially want to experience it that way." Thomas raised his eyebrows, but stayed immobile in Philip's grip, which tightened over his ribs. "Anyway," Philip restarted, ignoring the interest on Thomas's face, "I have a perfectly serviceable bed which we seem to have missed last time."  
  
Philip moved his hands from Thomas's torso and made his way down the hallway. Having turned a corner, he looked behind him to make ensure that he was, in fact, being followed; Thomas laughed and reached out, touching Philip's back as they continued to the bedroom.

Before the bed, Thomas's touch spread into the firmness of his palm and he pushed Philip along until knelt on its foot before pressing him down. Thomas kneeled between his knees and grabbing him firmly about the waist, manhandling him further up the bed.

Thomas's weight came down heavily atop him and Philip could barely think for the pleasure of their being so pressed together in this new way. He wanted to undress, to feel Thomas's bare skin against his own, but the idea of moving away from the embrace was nearly unimaginable. Thomas frantically undid Philip's collar and tie, tossing them onto the floor, and alternated between lips and teeth in his ministrations against what skin was at his disposal.  
  
He reached beneath Philip and undid his trousers, taking his cock in one hand as his other interlaced their fingers. Philip could feel Thomas's still-clothed erection rocking against the cleft of his arse in time with the movement of the hand around him. He moved in time as best he could, overcome in so dizzying a way by Thomas's desire more than even his own.  
  
"Touch yourself," Thomas said, lowly, and Philip could feel the voice vibrating against his ear on strings which went directly to his prick. Thomas's hand moved to press its length against his perineum, skirting towards his entrance when they rocked forward in time. Philip's mouth opened against the bed and he let out a soft moan, taking himself in hand.  
  
As the pitch and volume of Philip's exhalations increased, Thomas moved his own hand back to the Philip's cock, guiding his hand away from the shaft, and stroked the skin so roughly as to near painful. Philip's thumb stroked his head, following any movement, until he finally came, cry half-muffled by the duvet.  
  
He panted heavily against the bed, trying to find it in himself to flip Thomas over. Not entirely able, and hoping Thomas wasn't too far gone, he managed, "Get off".

The response, "I am", was not what Philip had intended, but the provoked laughter made him a little more cognizant.  
  
"Get off of me. Roll over."  
  
Thomas first stilled his movements, and Philip could feel him trembling over him with each breath before he shifted to the side.  
  
Philip drew into a kneeling position, moving himself between Thomas's legs. He unjoined the braces from the trousers, undoing the latter and pulling them and his underclothing down to just above his knees. "Oh," he said, at the faint yellowing over Thomas's hip. "I'm sorry."  
  
"What?" Thomas looked at him, nothing indicating curiosity having found its way to his face.  
  
"I gave you a bruise," he responded, ghosting his fingers over it.  
  
"I gave you one this time."  
  
As though having heard the accusation, a firework of pain set off from Philip's neck. "Yes, probably."  
  
Philip watched Thomas's hand drift slowly downward, and when ut met the base of his cock, Philip pressed his mouth tightly over as much as Thomas's length as he could. He felt Thomas suppress a jerk upward and ran his fingers along the crook of the Thomas's legs to still him.  
  
"You're wonderful," Thomas ground out. He didn't know if Thomas had anyone to compare him to, but he was pleased to hear it nonetheless. He liked doing this, liked feeling Thomas's prick twitch in his mouth. He liked sucking and kissing and licking the sensitive skin all his length, liked the taste of him, but he liked best of all when that eternally blasphemous voice in his mind murmured about sacrament when everything seemed to halt but for the bursts of ejaculate against his throat.  
  
While Thomas brought his breathing down to normal, Philip moved up the bed, hazily kissing Thomas's clothed body on his way up, before he sat to lean his back against the headboard. Thomas did his trousers back up, though when he made to sit Philip groped a hand into his hair and held him fast.  
  
"I _would_ like if you'd do more than go to bed with me." Thomas's eyes wandered up to meet his. "Don't run off. Please. Come here."  
  
Hair loosed, Thomas sat up and moved backward to meet his arms. Philip's arms slung over Thomas's shoulders, one of which was pressed into his chest - it was slightly awkward, but Philip didn't want to move and Thomas seemed as disinclined. He placed a kiss atop the mess of black hair before resting his face into it, enjoying the sweet smell of the oil Thomas used.  
  
"What do you normally get up to in your free time?"  
  
"I come here."  
  
"What did you get up to last Season?" He turned his head and gave a sly smile. "Unless you were similarly occupied?"  
  
"I've never been here before," he replied. The words wore his voice tightly, uncomfortably. "I started with the Crawleys after last Season. The house I worked at before didn't do it."  
  
Philip shifted down the bed, propping himself upon pillows. Thomas sank down with him, turning so that he lay with his face against Philip's chest, arm slung over him. Philip found Thomas's hand with own of his own and skimmed the other along Thomas's back.  
  
"This must be a bit of disappointment," he said, with an aim towards contradiction.  
  
"Hardly. I get as much of this as culture at Downton," Thomas said. Then, smiling, "Somehow the farmhands of Ripon don't strike my fancy."  
  
"Naturally. You've shown yourself to have refined tastes in all subjects."  
  
They lay silent for a while, Philip's consciousness guttering against the heat prickled over his skin like stars. He heard Thomas warn him against sleep, which he made only the vaguest attempts at heeding until his slowed breathing was caught up with Thomas's in a kiss. Their tongues met only lazily, torpor having slowed and made gentle their passions.

Suddenly, despite his general preference for keeping Thomas only within the reality so far as his arms extended, Philip found himself rather stuck on the idea of showing Thomas the way London exhaled at night. The way the new space at its bosom nearly allowed for men like them.  
  
Philip leaned their foreheads together so that their lashes nearly met and placed a single kiss on Thomas's slightly-parted mouth."Could you fix it to the stay night?"  
  
The weight over him shifted slightly and Thomas propped his head on his own arm, staring down Philip searchingly. "I may be able to."  
  
"You could have a relative take gravely ill. Unless you think that morbid," he added.  
  
Instead of looking anything remotely nearing appalled, Thomas broke into a grin. "I don't mind. Send me a card saying someone's dying. I'm sure the postmark will get smudged with tears," he said simply.  
  
Philip laughed at the immediacy with which his suggestion had been accepted. The charm of youthful deviousness was boundless to him and the fact that Thomas was so willing to lose himself in that chasm along with him left Philip exorbitantly happy. It was like a meeting of minds and histories running along the shared courses of their hearts. He slid his thumb over the pulse point of Thomas's throat, ensuring that the two of them ticked in time with one another.  
  
"Have you killed off many relatives like this?"  
  
"No," he said, voice humming against Philip's hand. "But I'm not against being orphaned."


	6. Chapter 6

Philip stood out of doors, idling in the caress of sunshine and smoking inattentively. His eyes danced above the life bustling past him and kept to the horizon, beyond uninterested in the swells or the businessmen or the merchants who'd not yet been swept away. He had found a seedy thrill in opening the door to Thomas, but the day was incredibly fine and he doubted he'd venture out to see it once he'd gained his evening's accompaniment.  
  
When he spotted Thomas, he saw that his face was set with a cool determination, approaching the mask he wore when working. Philip was pleased to note that he hadn't seen it since their first meeting; Thomas's occlusion seemed frozen, upon first glance, but curiously quick to melt at a kiss.  
  
"You smoke genuinely awful cigarettes," Philip said pleasantly by way greeting, flicking ash onto the ground. Thomas looked at him in surprise, a half-smile working over his face, and he shook his head disapprovingly.  
  
"You didn't need to smoke them just because you found them."  
  
"I'd never smoke, otherwise."

"Clever."

"Very," Philip said, letting Thomas pass him into the flat. Once sealed neatly in, Philip put the half-smoked cigarette between Thomas's lips. Thomas inhaled deeply and blew the smoke in a thin line above Philip's head.  
  
"Does your mother know what a rake you are? Stealing cigarettes from the grieving?" He asked, and poked his fingers against the remainder of the pack Philip had pocketed.  
  
"Oh god, I'd forgotten. My sympathies."  
  
Thomas looked at him and Philip could see him trying to rein his happiness back with the machinery of sorrow. "It's been truly dreadful. Console me?"  
  
At the invitation, Philip kissed him - their lungs sharing in the husky smoke which slipped from between them as though they stroked a flame.  
  
"I'm going to set your rug on fire," Thomas warned, suddenly, inclining his head towards the long-ashed cigarette at his fingers. Philip was prevented from tapping it on the edge of a plate adorning the table behind them, opting instead to let the embers darken a strip along a mess of calling cards. Philip only laughed, but Thomas lead him into the sitting room in search of an ashtray.  
  
"Here," he said, smiling as he handed it to Philip. He sank onto the couch, Philip sitting beside him - pressing himself against Thomas. Philip leaned his head against his Thomas's shoulder for a moment.   
  
"I've planned some devilry for the evening," he said, retrieving the pilfered cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one.  
  
"I thought those were awful," Thomas accused, to which Philip shrugged. Thomas took the pack away from him and asked, as he stuffed it into into his own pocket, "What sort of devilry?"  
  
"A restaurant. Which really is more devilish than it sounds," he assured.  
  
Philip watched Thomas's face cloud like the smoke which had suddenly appeared to draw his attention away from the conversation. Traces of unhappiness were suddenly drawn in like the last touches to a sketch. "I hardly have the dress for that."  
  
"I hardly expected you would," Philip said, awkardly. "I know someone with a rather popular clothier for a friend; I convinced him to let me borrow something for the night. You'll be dressed in the suit of some lord and I'm sure it will never look half so good again. I had to guess your measurements, but I imagine I wasn't terribly far off the mark."  
  
The affair hadn't taken much convincing; the someone had been a school chum and thought the entire charade rather a lark once it had been explained, in halting detail, why  exactly Philip wanted to make off with a stranger's suit. Then, quickly, the issue of measurements devolved into a farce, the friend laughing at him while Philip made non-committal hand gestures and the clothier showed him pieces entirely too large or small. Eventually, Philip hoped, he'd landed upon some just-rights.

"It hasn't yet come yet," Philip laid tentatively out over the silence. "I imagine it will arrive at the last post, just to be bothersome."

Thomas nodded jerkily and leaned forward to stub out his fag, allowing for Philip to place his own half-smoked cigarette between his lips. Philip fought back the tendrils of disappointment which crept over him like an iron vice, sealing him into his own odd sort of annoyance.  
  
"That's very," he paused, glancing away, "kind."  
  
\- and then the feelings coiled around Philip unwound immediately. He gave a little laugh and pressed his lips to Thomas's temple. "Did you suppose I would be unkind?"  
  
"It's odd to think of, is all. "  
  
"It was pure selfishness, I assure you," he said. It wasn't entirely true, but it had been free and diverting entertainment the length of a spare afternoon which promised to extend the length of this evening - he could think of little better. "We could have found some way to wile away the long hours if we stayed in, but I could hardly give up the notion of seeing you dressed up to the nines."  
  
"You're a queer one," Thomas said, extinguishing his cigarette. He reached his arm behind Philip's back and pulled him closer.  
  
"Perhaps, but I'm sure I'm the most sensible man you know."  
  
"That's hardly saying much. The only decently sensible one at the House is the dog."  
  
"And you, surely?"  
  
"That goes without saying."  
  
"What a very clever pair we are."  
  
So, for a long while, they conversed like ostentatiously clever men. Laughter erupted over blunders and they compared beration over the remarkable idiots whom Thomas had served. Thomas would outline his opinion and Philip would almost inevitably be able to sketch it out within the lines, heightening and making caricatures of the people who swept the dust of ballrooms directly into their dull little heads.  
  
A single person they had settled upon liking had been the viscount Philip had been speaking with the night they had met, and with whom Thomas had, apparently, gone to bed. At this revelation, Philip couldn't speak for laughter for a moment.  
  
"Oh, that's not fair! Not that night?"  
  
"Why do you suppose I left you?" Philip was nearly certain it was a lie, but he couldn't help the entertained horror from creeping over his face. After a moment, Thomas admitted, slightly red-faced, "No, weeks before. You two seemed chummy, though; I sort of thought I'd come recommended."  
  
"I'd only just met him, so we somehow missed the subject of sodomy. To think," Philip huffed, sitting straight and turning to face Thomas, "I was rather cross at him disappearing; he clearly did the both of us a good turn. I could write him a thank-you."  
  
"I think that may be a bad idea."  
  
"Immensely sensible of you."  
  
Thomas appeared to consider, before he made his way to his feet and stood before Philip. "Let's celebrate in his honour," he said through a smile.  
  
"How pagan," he hummed, wrapping a hand around Thomas's hip and pulling him forward, apparently prompting Thomas to climb atop his lap, straddling him. They met for a glancing kiss before Thomas pulled free, eyes wandering Philip's face and outlining his lips with his fingers. Philip sucked the tip of each into his mouth as they made contact. Like the the chaste, the young, they grinned at each centimetre allowed by the other so that they matched in expression at the end.  
  
Thomas ran his hand down Philip's throat and began to remove whatever item of clothing he came into contact with on his downward path, peeling away the articles which covered his chest. Soon, he was naked from the waist up and feeling altogether salacious at being so undressed in the sitting room, of all places.  
  
Kisses and bites were placed upon his collar bones and the firm heat of a tongue was pressed into the divot between. "Do they not feed you?" Philip teasingly asked, bringing Thomas's head up for a sloppy kiss.  
  
"Nothing like you," Thomas replied, laughing. He pressed his hand against the stressed crotch of Philip's trousers and massaged his erection. As he began to rock into the movement, Thomas gave a firm squeeze before moving his hand, pressing them both into Philip's hair, tilting his head back and kissing him. "We should go to your room."  
  
Philip made a noise of disapproval and managed to maintain that it was fine - before the weight was suddenly off of him, Thomas following through with his own plan. "Bastard," Philip said absently, plucking a stud from the pile of clothing at his side and throwing it at Thomas's back. It hit the wall just behind him with a click and fell to the floor.  
  
If it had been with anyone else, Philip was sure he would have hated this sort of thing. He'd never been one of those tragic little things who followed the boy he happened to fag for like a puppy-dog. He may have, on occasion, wished to be, but he felt his child-dignity far too keenly to allow for such lapses. Philip had since learned the proper places for dignity and found that this needn't be one; Thomas lorded beautifully, holding his beauty and humour both above anyone else and it made Philip ache with desire.  
  
After a moment's collection, Philip followed Thomas's path and struck upon a bit of fair play for his abandonment. When he came to the precipice of his room he watched Thomas neatly place his shoes on a chair and put his jacket on them. Philip went to the edge of the bed and sat, removing his remaining attire, eyes still on Thomas.  
  
He plucked absently at a garter while he waited for Thomas to undress. Once Thomas was unclothed, Philip stood up and walked over to him, encircling him in his arms. Their skin was flush nearly the length of their bodies and it was dizzying enough that Philip stepped back for a moment. He grabbed Thomas's hands and brought them behind his back.  
  
"What-"  
  
"Hush," Philip said, placing a kiss between Thomas's shoulders. He wrapped the garter he held around Thomas's wrists and, with a series of twists in the elastic, bound them together quite neatly. It was unlikely to satisfy de Sade, but Philip rather loved it.  
  
"Is this what your lot get up to at Eton?" Thomas asked over his shoulder.  
  
"If anything's brought over from school, it's caning. But," he said, grabbing a hold of Thomas's arm and guiding him towards the bed, "I was an unimpeachable child and never gained a taste for it."  
  
"I'm sure that's a lie."  
  
"You'll find out, won't you?"  
  
He lay Thomas on the bed and knelt between his legs, hoisting him so that his arse rested against Philip's thighs. It was near to a position in which he could have buggered Thomas, which only crossed his mind after. It hadn't been, but he wondered if Thomas thought that had been his intention. Since they had met, Philip had gathered up quite a list of charms that Thomas possessed, but he was sure what he liked best of all was that he'd never met anyone less reticent to commit a sin.  
  
Thomas was still, watching him, and Philip ghosted touches along the seam at his perineum to the tip of his cock, lightly playing his fingers over the slit. Their eye contact broke as Thomas dropped his head back with a soft sigh. Philip ran his thumb up and down Thomas's length, with barely enough pressure to jar the skin.  
  
"I wish -" Philip cut himself short and ceased his ministrations entirely, reaching up and tilting Thomas's head to an armoire at the side of the room which boasted a mirror. "See yourself?"  
  
Philip kept his hold along Thomas's jaw as he nodded, reaching down with his free hand to squeeze at the head of the Thomas's prick, slowly fisting it. "See?" He asked, and Thomas nodded once more. "You should stop running off. I'm so kind to you." At that, he brought his hand away from him, wetting his fingers in his own mouth as he watched Thomas's cock pulse against his belly for want of him.  
  
He pressed his middle finger against Thomas's entrance and saw his eyes open a little wider at the sensation. After a moment, he gave a shallow push inside; Thomas made a little noise - sounding more surprised than either pleased or pained.  Philip slowly drew his hand from Thomas's jaw down to his erection, resuming his earlier pace. As Thomas began to rock his hips in time with the strokes, Philip pressed deeper into him. As the pace of their movements increased, Philip felt his finger brush a hardness within and Thomas's head fell backward.  
  
"Jesus Christ," he ground out, voice strained.  
  
"Keeping looking at yourself," Philip said, sounding non-committal even to himself. He'd seen Thomas come off, but he'd never seen him so entirely undone and he could focus on little other than continuing to undo him. Thomas's hips rocked against him, fucking into Philip's fist with an almost absent need, hands flexing beneath himself and running his nails along Philip's thighs.  
  
"I don't - god - "  
  
"You should. This is the best thing I've seen," he mumbled. The breathy laughter elicited was nearly immediately drowned in rough panting as Philip took to fingering the hardness inside of him at the same tempo he'd adopted in stroking his cock. 

"Philip - Philip - ah - "  
  
Thomas's movements jerked as he dug his nails into Philip's skin, legs tightening around his arse, as he came with a strangled sob. Thomas continued to curse and blaspheme in the seconds of breath he found when Philip slipped his finger from him. He watched Thomas's cock soften beneath his grip and unhanded him to lick the release from his fingers as he began to masturbate himself roughly, revelling in in the tattered ribbons of breath which yet drifted down, feeling them wrap tightly over him.  
  
He spent himself over Thomas's belly and unhanded himself, moving up the bed and collapsing at Thomas's side. He ran his fingertips over Thomas's chest and brought them to Thomas's lips, which took them in slowly. Philip smiled and pressed their mouths together for a kiss, which continued for a slow while until he felt Thomas bite his tongue. Philip drew back at the unexpected pain, laughing over a frown  
  
"Untie me now."  
  
"I will," Philip responded. Instead, he got up and disappeared into the lavatory to get a hand towel. He took his time, amusing himself at the terrible tease of it all. "Isn't it awful when someone runs off on you?" He asked upon his return, pleased with the scowl he provoked.  
  
He sat at the edge of the bed and dropped the towel onto Thomas's chest, making him gasp. Thomas complained at the cold of it as Philip drew it over him, wiping away the pearlescent streaks. "I'll untie you after I put this back," he said, leaning over to place a kiss at the centre of Thomas's chest.  
  
"You'd never put it back if you were alone," Thomas said, voice wavering between an accusation and a whine.  
  
"That may be, but I'm not alone," he allowed. He popped the end of the towel rather skilfully against Thomas's hip before he left the room. He stood in the bathroom for a moment before he placed the towel on the sink, not entirely sure what to with it, before he came back to find Thomas upright. He fiddled with his bind in frustration.

  
"Shall I help or would you like to finish?" He asked, sitting down behind him.  
  
"Just bloody undo it."  
  
Philip tried to remember how he'd manage to secure it. After a moment bothering it, he curled inward with a laugh, resting his forehead between Thomas's shoulder blades. "Wouldn't it be dreadful if I couldn't?"  
  
"Yes," Thomas said, pointedly unamused. Philip could only laugh again.  
  
"I think I'm going to hurt you," he warned, then dug his fingers beneath the stretched-firm elastic at Thomas's wrist and tugged it down as hard as he could, leaving an angry red trail in his wake. He tossed the now-useless garter to the floor.  
  
Philip drew Thomas down, so that he rested his head on Philip's lap, running his fingers through the thick black hair.  
  
"Do you remember that viscount's name?" Thomas asked suddenly, looking up at him.  
  
"You know - I don't. I haven't the slightest idea."  
  
"We're very shoddy pagans."  
  
"I think we're excellent Greeks," Philip countered, grinning. "You know, you never asked me for a story this time."  
  
"Not setting fire to your flat seemed important."  
  
"I appreciate your discretion," he said, running his fingers along Thomas's cheekbone. He tapped it once. "But I have a story for you, anyway." He tilted Thomas's head toward the mirror again. "Do you know of Endymion?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Oh - all right. Endymion was a fellow Selene, the moon, was quite in love with, and he wanted to sleep forever so that he could remain young. But," he said, slower, "Selene had a brother, who was the moon during the day, and he was also in love with Endymion. He and Selene exchanged words over him, but she was preferred throughout Olympus, so Zeus damned him to earth, far away from Endymion, to spare Selene's heart.  
  
"When he first awoke, he was pure moon. Then the night passed and its darkness caught up in his hair and the day faded and the blue of it pooled in his eyes. With his more human appearance, he took to wandering the Earth, looking for Endymion. and each day his lips grew redder with unspent passion, because Endymion remained hidden from him.  
  
"And the tale goes he's still looking, after all this time. Always shall  be - and that's humanity's prize, isn't it? Because he'll always be the most divine thing they could ever see."  
  
They were awash in silence for a good few minutes before Thomas turned from his reflection to Philip, grabbing up one of his hands and kissing the wrist. "You shouldn't talk like that," he said. "I'll start to think you care for me."  
  
"Wherever could you have gotten that idea?" Philip asked, softly petting Thomas's hair. Spurred on by his myth, he suddenly wished for nothing more than to sleep beneath his moon - and moved to lay beside his lover. Thomas drew him closer and wrapped his arm around Philip's waist, touching his lips to the protrusions of Philip's spine.  
  
Philip tightened the grip around himself and backed further into the touch, so that it extended down the line of their bodies. A curious shuffling came from somewhere and Philip made a half-hearted sound of acknowledgement.  
  
"I imagine that's the post. Don't get up; it will be there later."  
  
"Have you got an alarm clock?" Thomas asked against his back.  
  
"On the table behind you. We should be at The Criterion by eleven or so, but I don't think we should sleep for nearly that long."  
  
"Two hours?"  
  
"That's fine."  
  
Thomas rolled onto his back to grab the clock and, having set it, returned it to the table as awkwardly. He turned again and pressed himself against Philip once more. Philip took his hand and placed kisses at the burn left by his garter, then sunk it and his own hand beneath his waist, fingers interlaced.  
  
He lay like that for a while, half-awake, enjoying the feel of Thomas's body against his own. The idea came to mind to turn around and kiss him (he wondered if he'd ever stop thinking of his mouth), but no sooner had it arrived than he found himself broken from Thomas's hold and encircled by the arms of Morpheus.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Criterion, late in the evening, _was_ genuinely a hang-out for a certain type of homosexual chap in the 1910s.

Philip had, on all fronts, done a very-near embarrassingly fine job at guessing the necessary fit of Thomas's dress. The trousers may not have broke quite right at the foot, but the details which were off were only the sort to provoke comment from the hideous nouveau riche or the elderly women who still wore their hair in ringlets.  
  
Honestly, Philip wouldn't have noticed them on anyone but himself, and only happened to note his mistakes when he watched Thomas's eyes catch over them as he appraised himself. Whatever Thomas felt, the pinpricks appeared to do nothing to deflate the pleasure which transformed his so typically mocking mouth into a genuine smile. Philip loved the smirk which he usually wore, but the sight of him in so unfamiliar a mask atop his impeccably smart suit was a thrill to behold. Philip felt as though he'd have Heaven in a rage over the frantic beating of wings within his ribs.  
  
Tearing his eyes away from Thomas's face, he drew them slowly over his body, following the hands where they fiddled or smoothed. When he seemed satisfied with his appearance, he took a step back and took everything in.  
  
"You look very handsome," Philip assured him.  
  
"Don't I always?"  
  
"You look like you're from an Arrow advertisement," Philip specified.  
  
Thomas laughed and met Philip's gaze in the mirror before rolling his eyes. "Come here and let me do up your tie," he said, slowly turning heel away from his reflection.  
  
"I've done it."  
  
"Let me do it properly," Thomas responded. Philip walked over to him and he plucked the tie loose. "Honestly, Philip, this is tragic."  
  
The sound of his name filtered through Thomas's accent was somehow a little too unsteadying; he'd not heard it so pronounced since having been asked if it were permissible. Philip kissed him over his hands, which made no motion to stop their adjusting the tie. He traced the lines of Thomas's coat down his chest and across hips, before coming to a rest with his hands beneath his braces.  
  
"I've made quite the study of you; if I could paint, I'd be renowned for this," he said lightly against his lips. "As it is, we're the only ones to appreciate my talent."  
  
"I'm sure you're quite impressive," Thomas teased, moving away to retrieve the brush. He brushed himself off first, outlining himself with sharp movements, before he returned to do the same for Philip. As he finished, Philip decided to to turn a fact into a buttonhole and let it rest against Thomas's lapel for the evening.  
  
"You're no slouch."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"After all," he said, turning his attention to putting on his gloves, "you've a duke rather in love with you, which I'm under the impression is something rather grand."  
  
If the question had been put to him the previous week, he would not have been able to say so. Truthfully, if it were put to him at the time of their next meeting, it mightn't be so. Yet it was easy to feel when he saw Thomas so guilelessly happy and the thought refused to pass without searing itself on his mind.  
  
He looked up and watched Thomas's brows draw together slightly. "Have I?"  
  
"You know you have." Then, feeling altogether too serious, he added, "Think, it's something from a fairy story."  
  
Thomas grimaced as though in pain, then laughed abruptly. He sauntered over to Philip and spooned against him, arms slung low around his waist, facing the both of them in the direction of the mirror.  
  
Philip ran his fingers along the back of the other's hands. They did look very fine, enmeshed in the black of their dress. "I'd love," he started, moving Thomas's grip lower until his hands broke part, slowly sliding one over the length of his cock, "for the gentlemen to know what their very fine clothing was up to before they received it. I'm sure it's far more exciting than anything they'll ever get up to."  
  
Thomas took a step back, biting out a slightly dizzy strain of laughter. "We ought to go before we get distracted."  
  
"If you insist," Philip replied, sighing. Thomas stepped forward once more and kissed the sharply razored line of Philip's hair above his collar.  
  
"How'll you survive without your mouth on me?" He asked, removing himself to across the room to retrieve his hat, placing it atop his head.  
  
"Whatever am I to do with you?"  
  
"Take me somewhere devilish and get me tight, unless I'm mistaken."  
  
"It's a lucky thing you're beautiful, because you're utterly unbearable."  
  
Thomas met him at he was crossing to room's exit. He wove his gloved fingers into Philip's hair and pulled him, rather gingerly, into a kiss. Philip found himself pressed against the jamb, lips parted gently. "I think," Thomas murmured, moving his mouth from Philip's own to his forehead, "you bear me awfully well."  
  
Thomas broke away from him and and turned to lead the way down the hall, heading toward the outer door of the flat. Upon reaching it, he opened it to the night rather grandly, only for Philip to come from behind him and close it.  
  
"We can leave in a moment. Kiss me again."

 

 

 

Once comfortably seated in The Criterion, Philip wasted no time in beginning to silently disparage the intellects of everyone whom he even vaguely knew and the looks of strangers. The restaurant was not a particular haunt of his, but he'd chosen it to avoid at least the majority of his intimates who would find it rather fun to prod until he was hounded away. He had no interest in staying terribly long, but he wanted the freedom to leave at his leisure - and Thomas's.  
  
"All of the respectable people have left so it's only sinners and parvenus."  
  
"I can tell," Thomas replied, glancing at the people surrounding them. He lit a cigarette and watched as the waiter returned with a bottle of champagne and the necessary glasses. "How many of them are - ?"  
  
It was rather an unmistakable crowd. Honestly, more unmistakable than Philip liked, but the tittering sort with shiny nails and cheeks rouged just east of the Theatre Royal did make for entertaining company. Particularly, if he was correct, for a fellow like Thomas who'd never been to a place with this sort of clientèle.  
  
"Most of the men, less of the women," he responded smoothly. He poured both of them a rather ungainly amount of champagne. "I do hope you weren't kidding about getting tight," he said, swallowing a large draught to squelch the pain in his middle, "because we'll have to drink until we're not hungry."  
  
"Do you not normally play host?" Thomas smirked.  
  
"Not left to my own devices, thank heavens." He finished his glass, watching as Thomas surveyed those surrounding them. "Anyone you care to know about? I can almost certainly guarantee you've never served any of them."  
  
"That blond fellow," Thomas said, inclining his head slightly to the table nearest them. The fellow was young-looking and remarkably under-dressed.  
  
Philip glanced over briefly and conceded, "I don't know him, or of him. Judging from whom he's with, I'm nearly certain he's a whore."  
  
"Who's he with?"  
  
"No one important. Yellow papers. Not quite clever enough for anyone interesting."  
  
"What about that group?" He gestured to a middle-sized group of mixed sex.  
  
"They're doing a journal together, I think. Or most of them are. Not bad, but rather important."  
  
Philip finished his second glass and refilled Thomas's first. Thomas laughed and took a drink. "Be careful. I can't carry you back; I don't know where you live from here."  
  
"No need to worry. I carry champagne rather impressively," he said, feeling quite pleased with himself.  
  
"You carry it directly to the nearest footman to ask if he'll go to bed with you. In the least subtle manner I've ever heard, if I recall."  
  
"As it happens, I planned on doing much the same tonight."  
  
Thomas grinned at him, again in that new genuine way. "You're very sure of yourself."  
  
"I'm as sure of you," he said, smiling back. He kicked their feet together under the table precisely the moment heard a feminine voice drop out "Hallo, Salome" from behind him. He froze for a moment, hoping to god that Thomas wouldn't understand what she was talking about. Fortunately, those blue eyes still drifted listlessly about the room, and Philip turned easily toward Gaby.  
  
She stood very near to him, looking pleased with herself, taking his eye contact as invitation to stand between the men, looming over them. Philip slid his chair closer to Thomas's.  
  
"You'll be pleased to hear," he began, blazing straight by an introduction, which he hoped that she would take as a different sort of invitation, "that he has very fine taste. He appreciated your Madame de Pompadour."  
  
Philip noted that, thankfully, Gaby had certainly had more to drink than either of them and was, therefore, slightly easier to excuse.  
  
"You see! He was very cross at me for putting up," she said to Thomas, who was looking at her with amusement, "but I told him it would create a better impression if not all of the women on his walls were Gorgons."  
  
"My relatives aren't Gorgons," Philip said; there was something in his nature which couldn't help but to prolong conversation by way of friendly antagonism. To not do so was as absurd as keeping a cigar between one's fingers without ever lighting it.  
  
"Oh, you poor dear. You can't even tell."  
  
"I know not everything filters down to your sort, but surely everyone knows not to make fun of a duke?"  
  
"I bet he does worse," she said, flicking her eyes at Thomas. Philip couldn't stifle his laugh; it was nothing raucous, but apparently enough to make Thomas disappear behind his glass, having turned rather red.  
  
"Don't start that," Philip said, quickly recovering. Gaby frowned at him.  
  
"I actually came over here to warn you that Oliver's invited himself to luncheon on Friday and is going to be merciless. He just left. But," she added, twirling a hand in the air as though willing a glass to appear, "I have more diverting company to get back to."  
  
"By all means."  
  
"Friday, then."  
  
Gaby received a solemn nod before she forged her way back into her party. Thomas looked bemusedly after her. "She's quite - " he trailed off, apparently hoping Philip would add in an acceptable adjective.  
  
Philip, however, found the sentiment perfectly expressed as it was, and simply said, "Yes."  
  
"Does she not mind?" Thomas helped himself to more champagne and Philip plucked the cigarette from between his fingers and began to smoke it.  
  
"Not unless she does a very fine job of hiding the fact, which I rather doubt. She's not especially opaque, as you may have gathered."  
  
They sat a while awash in the conversation in others, Philip tapping his foot against Thomas's. Thomas never looked especially relaxed, even for a blink, so intrigued by the clusters of people surrounding them. He made a point to not stare at an altogether too brash pair who nearly locked fingers over the table, though his eyes flitted around them like a moth to flame.  
  
"Do you not know anyone?" Philip wondered aloud. Any possible response was cut off by the appearance of a somewhat beleaguered-looking waiter, from whom another bottle was requested. Philip repeated himself at the man's departure, clarifying, "Not generally, of course, but - "  
  
"I figured what you'd meant. No. A maid I work with knows. About me. But I don't - nothing like that," he said, letting his words fade. His speech had lost the nervous bumps of their arrival and had turned to drift on plucked champagne strings.  
  
"How did she come to know?"  
  
"Guessed. It were nice to have someone know and not seem to mind much, so I let her keep knowing." He shrugged.  
  
"That sounds slightly ominous," Philip replied, perking up at the waiter's return. He poured the both of them another glass and pulled out his watch. They'd not been there at all long, but the evening's point had been driven as deeply as it was likely to. "Would you like to go after this?"  
  
"Glass or bottle?"  
  
"Oh, heavens, bottle."  
  
Thomas laughed. A line of heat burned visibly across his face and Philip fancied that he could streak the colour if he were to touch it. Heedlessly, he tested the thought, reaching up to run his forefinger along Thomas's cheekbone and down to the pale flesh beneath. The lashes above his finger fluttered slightly.  
  
"Don't do that," Thomas said, voice strained some against unease.  
  
"The people here know and don't mind so much," Philip replied, reverberating Thomas's sentiment. The hollow reassurance of it would have grated, but it had the benefit of being true and was an entirely pleasant thing to give oneself over to. No response forthcoming, Philip reached beneath the table and laid his hand over the curve of his thigh.  
  
"You get worrying when you've had a bit to drink, don't you?"  
  
Philip frowned; he didn't think he did. It was just a matter of knowing where and when being foolish was permissible. He found it rather disappointing that Thomas didn't seem to see the fun of it - yet when he made to pull his hand back, Thomas suddenly grabbed it and rested their palms together, marking soft lines on Philip's wrist with his fingertips.  
  
"It's no Paris, but it's also not - York, or wherever," Philip said, punctuating what he felt was to be a spiel with a drink. "Take advantage of a thing when you've got it. I fully intend to live beyond my means until the bloody means are gone, otherwise there hardly seems a point in having had them. I mean, I don't aim to lose them. But I don't aim at much and look at how far I've gotten for it."  
  
There was a pause between them, comfortable enough, but borne on the crest of what Philip thought was Thomas battling with himself. Then, he should have known better, for the response, when it came, was merely -  
  
"I'd love to kiss you."  
  
Thomas tightened the joining of their hands and Philip, oh, he would have given up so much to acquiesce.  
  
"This isn't really the place for that. Tragically. God," he said, with a flustered laugh, "what a tragedy."  
  
The bottle between them was very near to empty. Thomas poured the remainder into his own glass, unfocused eyes fixed on Philip's. He began to bring the champagne to his mouth when Philip stopped him, provoking a quizzical look.  
  
"To - ?" Philip asked.  
  
"-Not being in Ripon."  
  
"That may be the least enthusiastic toast I've heard," he rejoined, keeping his grip on Thomas's arm. Philip watched Thomas's eyes run over his face, watched his lips part as though to speak, only to twist themselves anew with thought. He appeared, for a moment almost disconcerted.  
  
"I think you may have a footman a bit in love with you."  
  
Philip's heart seemed to want to beat through his chest to meet Thomas's. Without hesitation, Philip drew his hand along Thomas's arm, letting it linger for a moment too long as their hands met once more, before he snatched the glass from him. Philip lifted it quickly, spilling some of its contents over his fingers.  
  
"To bloody anything."

  



	8. Chapter 8

The return to the flat proved as excruciatingly trying as Philip had assumed it would be. The willpower he had found to keep his eyes locked on the night had not extended its way through him; gaze still averted, he lingered his hand up the in-seam of Thomas's trousers. Suddenly gathering his wits, he removed the pressure of his hand and turned its palm up as he asked for a cigarette.  
  
Thomas complied, but complained the while. Once their cigarettes starred the dark, they fell into the safer score of debating whether or not it constituted a habit if you only ever borrowed them. The topic roiled aimlessly between them until they had alighted on the stoop.  
  
They stood outside for longer than Philip would have thought possible, alternating their stares between the sky and the vehicles rolling along. The air was still hot, but it had the benefit of being far fresher than his flat was likely to be, which, while it didn't sober him, did have benefit of making him feel more alive than not.  
  
Yet his life seemed to find itself more whetted when he was drowned in pleasure and, while the air was very well and good, it certainly wasn't more satisfying than tasting the sighs which he could provoke from Thomas's lips. As though on cue, Thomas heaved a sigh of his own volition.  
  
"Yes," Philip said, absently agreeing to the proposition he'd felt had been put to him. He turned to the door and made rather long work of unlocking it. Once he'd finally managed to grasp the art, he plucked the cigarette from Thomas's fingers and tossed it, along with own, to the pavement. He received a light shove in response, which he allowed to tip him over the threshold and indoors.  
  
He decided against the absence of passersby to grab Thomas's hand and pull him inside, leaving the both of them ensconced in abject darkness as the door closed. With his free hand trailing the walls, he walked the both of them to his bedroom.  
  
They stopped their path at the dull ending of a bedside table, whereupon Philip turned on a lamp. He squinted against the light, however dim it may have been, and turned around to slip his gaze directly into Thomas's. The blue eyes flickered with mirth.  
  
"That were fun," Thomas said, sounding as though in conspiracy. He wrapped himself around Philip, slowly but heavily, and knocked him back into the table. Thomas saved the lamp from upsetting and Philip held him tighter, laughing into his shoulder.  
  
"That was the idea."

 

 

 

The two fell into step, just slightly out of their usual time for the ever-changing rhythms beating in their blood. Increasing elements of spiffy dress lay strewn about the floor, all attempts to catch anything on the chair proving abortive, but for a stud which was surely lost forever within.  
  
Something tossed had caused quite the stir over a table: The bottles thereupon knocked into one another with a startling sound, which was then soothed away by a few soft thumps and clinks as they hit the floor. Philip reluctantly lifted his head toward the tumult, if only to ensure that nothing was pouring into the floor. He turned Thomas's curious gaze away from the mess and back to him.  
  
"I think we can worry about that tomorrow."  
  
"That," Thomas replied, pressing an oddly sweet kiss to his lips, "is the best thing I've heard said."  
  
"You're not very romantic," Philip said, voice laced with mock-affront.  
  
Thomas made a non-committal sound and shifted his weight downward, stopping so that he rested with an elbow propping him up and a hip jutting into the bed between Philip's thighs. Thomas's free hand slowly traversed his chest in outline, drifting down on the current of hair until his fingers tangled into the thatch above his cock.  
  
"Tell me again. Properly," he added, dropping his forehead against Philip's stomach. His hand slid lower and he wrapped his fingers around his prick. He bit and sucked at the skin of his belly in designs sure to leave marks against forgetting.  
  
Philip took a moment to gather his voice back from where it had seemed to creep into the bruises, then nearly began to repeat his dismissal of the mess when he wondered if that hadn't been what had been meant. The option for him to renege was a sterling one (if he did, doubtless Thomas wouldn't push), but he let it tarnish quickly; he didn't want to spoil anything else. Didn't want to chance unhappiness creeping its way across Thomas's features.  
  
"I love you."  
  
Immediately, Thomas's teeth gave way to soft lips and tongue. He pushed wet kisses in a steady downward path to his erection, then up its length until he took the head into his mouth. He slipped himself over it deeper and Philip could feel a groan vibrate around him. The feeling of it wanted to kill him, to stop him then and there.  
  
"Ah - god. Stop. Stop, stop - "  
  
The words sounded, and felt, as though they were being ripped from him and, god, he was loath to say them. It had been perfect, but ideas hazily-had had occluded his desire for such perfection.  
  
"What is it?" Thomas asked, confused. The question came through swollen lips and he looked at him a little unclearly, though the fringe which had fallen into his eyes. The mad thought came to Philip that it was no wonder such things weren't allowed: they were far, far too much to be borne witness to.  
  
Philip shook his head, awkwardly extricating himself from the embrace. "I want - wait."  
  
Thomas looked on in consternation as Philip stood and crossed to the side of room. He stood before the disarrayed table and fingered the bottles still atop it, tilting them back to see what they were. Naturally, the bottle Philip was after had fallen to the floor and rolled away.  
  
"I thought that could wait?"  
  
"Be patient; you need all the virtue you can get."  
  
"I'm fine," Thomas retorted, sitting up. "What's it your doing?"  
  
Sinking between Thomas's legs, he swirled the vial. "Getting this. Hold the top," he ordered, and put the lid into Thomas's hand as he tipped the contents of the bottle into his own. The oil pooled into his cupped palm and threatened to spill as he held up the vial for Thomas to close. Once done, he returned it to the floor.  
  
He let the oil drip thinly between his fingers, onto his prick, stroking it with his unoccupied hand for just long enough to cover himself. "Lie back," he said. Thomas's eyes flickered from what he was doing to his face before he acquiesced. "I don't want to hurt you, but - " the words were overwhelmed by a sigh from Thomas as Philip pressed an oiled finger into him. He restated himself, then, "I want to bugger you. God, I want to fuck you."  
  
The words, put so boldly, seemed to Philip more lascivious than the act he was engaged in. The act seemed a secret of their tribe, but the words belonged to a world that would expire at the mere prospect of their reality. It seemed as though the world wouldn't survive the act of Philip pressing his cock into Thomas with the force of a novice - no one would know of the shocked red streaks Thomas's nails left against Philip's arm.  
  
"Don't move," Thomas directed earnestly. His eyes rolled back and he managed, "Oh god, your heart."  
  
"I can't stop moving that," Philip said, his voice a strange flurry. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Thomas's waist, and buried his face against his chest. They remained for a time, immobile wrecks of hammering hearts. Even the stillness was stupefying, almost painful in the constriction and the heat around him.  
  
Eventually, Thomas's warning grip on his arms slackened. Philip disentangled one, and reached beneath himself to stroke Thomas's prick back to life. He could feel the tremor of the hips beneath him which turned into slow, steady rolling motions. Freeing his hand from Thomas's erection to allow it to create friction against his belly, Philip replaced his arm beneath Thomas and pulled him closer.  
  
Philip was too far gone to make make a sound beyond his laboured breathing, but each deepening thrust of his cock provoked a jagged sigh from Thomas. As the violence of his movements increased, the sighs shattered, the sound of which Philip silenced with a frantic sort of kiss. He was terrified that Thomas would ask him to stop, yet couldn't help unsealing their kiss toward an overwrought coalescence of gasps.  
  
He felt as though he were being rent limb from limb as he came - inside of him. That was the though cycling through his brain and he lifted his hands to Thomas's face and brought their mouths together desperately, kissing until his lips grew sore.  
  
"You're perfect," Philip mumbled, drawing back. He saw tracks of tears which shone sideways down Thomas's face and he softly brushed at them with his thumbs. "Did you hate that?" He asked uneasily, guilt sliding from his question to his guts.  
  
"No," Thomas half-laughed. He reached his hands through Philip's hair and pulled him into, what would have been in any other circumstance, a chaste kiss.  
  
Philip withdrew himself from Thomas, immediately regretting that most intimate loss of contact, and moved onto his side. He went to bring his hand to Thomas's cock once more, but Thomas intercepted it and pulled it around his waist as he rolled over.  
  
"Just keep ahold," he said, so softly that Philip wasn't sure if he was meant to hear. He pulled Thomas flush to him and kissed his neck once, before there was simply nothing.

 

 

Not having entirely realised that he had fallen asleep, his waking up came as something of a surprise. He had faded into the world, which felt still so like a dream - the soft glow of the lamp seem to be intertwined naturally with the still-warm air, thick with the scent of the oil and sweat and spent lust.  
  
He shifted himself away from Thomas's back and onto his own, drifting thoughtlessly on the precipice of sleep which, for all his wanting, he never found himself tipped over.  
  
Nearly an hour passed in this futile effort before he gave up, standing and realising with a shocking force that he wasn't yet sober. He steadied himself and tried to will any remaining champagne away as he was made his way to the adjoining room, hoping in vain that his mind would be relieved with such efficiency as his bladder. No such luck.  
  
Philip found himself staring at the tub, considering for only a moment before he started the water running. As this set about its task, he made his way into the pantry and glanced about its, frankly disheartening, stores. He rarely ate in and Godfrey had, reasonably enough, let himself slacken the reigns over its precision - which, naturally, Philip now damned him for.  
  
A lonely-looking lump of bread sat swaddled next to a dish of strawberries and another of cream. He dipped a finger into the cream and licked it off, immediately grimacing at the floral taste the oil had left on his skin; he felt it fair play by Nanny for having eaten with his fingers. He grabbed the fruit and returned from whence he came.  
  
Upon Philip's return to his bedroom, he found that Thomas still slept. He looked lovely as he did so - devoid of anything but himself and still the most beautiful thing Philip had seen. He held the dish in one hand and peeled the stem of a strawberry away with the other, letting the greenery drop to the floor, and pressed it against Thomas's lips.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
Thomas took it into his mouth once he'd awoken further and ate it as he sank bank to his earlier position.  
  
"Here," Philip said, rolling him onto his back. "I don't want to starve you." He balanced a handful of berries unsurely atop Thomas's chest. Before Thomas had time to respond beyond a curious, sleepy look, Philip sought out the tub to turn the water off.  
  
He put a tray over its width and sat the dish on it before he grabbed a bar of soap to wash the oil from his hands. He placed the bar next to the dish and sank himself chest-deep in the water, which felt only like a more visceral version of the air.  
  
Sleep crept over him enough to tug him down, to overweigh him, but almost in a way that left him too tired for the act of sleeping. Still, the water seemed so much more lulling than his bed; he leaned his neck against the rim of the tub and half-dozed until he heard Thomas's voice drag itself through the silence.  
  
"That'd be a very stupid way to die," he levied.  
  
Turning, Philip couldn't help but laugh at the sight before him of Thomas holding an ashtray in one hand, a cigarette in his mouth, and his prick in the other hand as pissed nonchalantly. "Are you that busy?" Philip asked.  
  
"Yes. Had to save you from a watery grave, apparently."  
  
"You know, I've managed to bathe alone for many years now without any problems. But, if you're concerned," he said, sitting up and pushing the erstwhile forgotten tray farther along, "get in."  
  
Thomas obeyed wordlessly, sitting flush against him. He pulled the tray closer, placing the ashtray upon it as he smoked. Philip reached around him and grabbed a few berries, peeling the stems off and dropping them to the floor before he popped them in his mouth in one.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said, catching Thomas's amused expression, "but I'm starved."  
  
"Whose fault is that?" Thomas laughed.  
  
"There's only this and bread," he admitted. "I could - well, I've got to call tomorrow and get a surrogate gentleman. I could call early and see if one could be sent 'round for breakfast. There's a guest room, so it wouldn't really be odd, your being here."  
  
Thomas turned around to look at him. "I could do that. For you."  
  
"No, you couldn't," Philip said, smiling. "If I nicked someone who looked like you off of a lord, my mother would make her way to London before you'd a chance to do up my tie the first morning. Anyway, it's only for the week. But if I called, we'd have to be respectable tomorrow."  
  
"Well," Thomas said, frowning slightly as he stubbed his fag end into the ashtray, "I can starve."  
  
"I don't want you to starve. Eat some of these," he tilted the dish slightly. "There's cream, as well, but you'd have to get it." Philip lifted one of the berries into the air obligingly and Thomas bit in half.  
  
"Mm, I'm not moving."  
  
"I'm glad."  
  
The actions surrounding the food soon fell to Thomas, who would let Philip bite them in half before he ate the rest himself. For his part, Philip sunk them both a little deeper into the water and began to trace absent patterns around Thomas's chest and belly, slicing them through as he drew his finger down in short, sharp lines. He took an unsolicited strawberry and bit in half, then turned Thomas's face to him and swiped the bared edge across his cheeks.  
  
"What've you done that for?" He laughed, stealing the berry away as he wiped his thumb over the lines.  
  
"I wanted to see if I could pass you for a fallen actress. I don't think you'll do," he said, voice tinged with sadness. "Perhaps one of those fairies."  
  
"You're an ass," Thomas informed him, still smiling. Philip ran his tongue along the red streak he'd created and found Thomas's ever-red mouth for a tart kiss.  
  
"Maybe you'll make for a fallen actress yet," he said, quirking his brows. Thomas kissed the bare space between them and fell back against his chest.  
  
"I don't think I will," he finally replied, mouth full. He peeled a stem and placed a naked strawberry into Philip's mouth.  
  
"Mm, no. That's all right. I don't go in for actresses, anyway."  
  
"Why ever not?"  
  
"I find, " Philip began, slipping his hand down Thomas's front until the crook of his thumb and finger surrounded the base of his penis, "them lacking. Somehow." Philip tightened his hold and pressed his grip slowly up Thomas's length, then down again, repeating the motion until he was hard beneath his hand.  
  
Thomas's head dropped back against his shoulder and Philip studied the line of his profile from where his chest rose above the water to his hairline, revelling in its smoothness. Thomas found his free hand and interlaced their fingers as Philip kissed the line of his neck and continued pumping his cock.  
  
"I love you. So much. I do. I love you - "  
  
Philip kissed the skin behind his ear and cut him short, "I know. I know, shh." He stroked his thumb roughly over the slit of Thomas's cock and brought his hand, still intertwined with Thomas's, to the man's chest, running their fingers roughly over a nipple. "God, I wish I could keep you here. Always. Away from anyone else. Only us, right now, always, " he murmured lowly, straight into Thomas's ear. Philip increased the pace of his hand around his prick. "Wouldn't that be Heaven?"  
  
The words were was coming out garbled, but he was merely giving voice to thoughts, as though doing so would give them strength to wend their way around Thomas and tangle him in Philip's dreams. Thomas nodded dazedly as his hips moved himself more hurriedly into the friction of Philip's hand.  
  
"Just - tighter -"  
  
\- and Philip tensed his grip firmly. Thomas's head jerked back against him even harder as he came, mouth agape and soon the air was awash with the his obscene sounds which Philip kissed as they poured from his throat.  
  
As the room echoed in silence, Philip lit upon a pleasantly salacious idea. He stemmed a strawberry and ran it through the ejaculate which had layered in the water, then let the rhe berry drop into his mouth. Thomas caught the idea of what he was doing and turned away, nuzzling his head into Philip's arm and shutting his eyes.  
  
"Don't bloody do that," he mumbled.  
  
"I adore anything to do with you," Philip replied, beginning to do the same with another before he opted to put it into Thomas's mouth instead. Thomas made not even the slightest pretence of objection. "See? You were made for strawberries."  
  
"I'll have to tell people that."  
  
"You'll be so very popular," Philip said. He brought Thomas's heavy head to his again for a kiss. "Shall we get back to bed? This'd be a very silly way to die."  
  
"That's a way to put it," Thomas said, cracking his eyes open just enough to peer into Philip's face. "I want to stay for a while"  
  
Philip sat a little more upright, pulling Thomas with him. "If you want to risk it, I can try to save us before we have an incriminating death."  
  
"I don't think I trust you with it, but go on. Impress me."


	9. Chapter 9

The morning light poured in low through the windows and made itself a shroud around Philip, who awoke with a groan at the the unkind embrace. He turned away, into the bed, and covered his eyes against the light. His consciousness wavered until it was brought a little further to life by the soft pressure of fingers running through his hair.  
  
"Why in god's name are you awake?" he mumbled. At this, the ministrations stopped and he received a sharp tap against his temple, which elicited a shock of pain. He grabbed Thomas's hand with his own and pressed the both of them against his head as though to stop the reverberations.  
  
"I'm up before this, usually. We can't all laze about as we like."  
  
"Take advantage, then," he said, keeping Thomas's hand with him as he shifted onto his back. "What time is it?"  
  
"It's just a habit. Half eight."  
  
"Good lord, Thomas. You can't feel much better than I do. Come here and break that awful habit."  
  
Thomas gave a a soft huff of laughter and extricated his hand from its hold, placing the other on Philip's waist as he moved down the bed. After a moment, he informed Philip of one of the more beautiful facts Philip had heard in a time - "There's a Beecham's on the table behind you."  
  
Philip opened his eyes and noticed Thomas looking pleasantly dishevelled, though somewhat wan. "Not efficient enough for a shave, though?" He teased, sitting up a bit woozily and grabbing the glass from beside him. "Thank you," he added, as Thomas began to speak.  
  
"I didn't feel up to using a razor just then."  
  
Philip hummed his amusement in between gulps, catching sight of a discarded book which lay open behind Thomas. "Anything strike your fancy?"  
  
"Hmm?" Thomas asked, then followed Philip's gaze behind him. "Oh. Yes, in fact. I won't be so taken in by your grand talk, now."  
  
"I don't know what you mean," Philip replied, replacing the empty glass. "And I doubt you were ever that impressed." He paused as he situated himself once more along the bed. "I'd lend it to you, but you might be so disappointed in me by the end that you'd not come around."  
  
"You've other draws than your speeches," Thomas said, smiling.  
  
"I'm flattered. Dorian."  
  
"Not hardly."  
  
"Have you ever read it?" Philip asked, to which Thomas shook his head. "For the best. That's only complimentary for about five pages."  
  
"I'm farther along than that."  
  
"My apologies," he said. He pulled Thomas into an unhurried kiss, which existed only for itself. Thomas pressed him backward until he lay flat, stroking his thumb along Philip's bristled jawline, kissing at the invisible trails left thereupon. "When's your train meant to come in?"  
  
"Three, I think. I doubt they'll check."  
  
Thomas draped an arm over Philip's torso, resting his head against his arm. Philip felt a strange desire course through him, and without thinking, reached his free hand over to grab roughly at the skin above Thomas's hip, pulling it away from the bone until Thomas made a sound and stopped him.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"Did you never - did you never want to squeeze a puppy?" Philip asked, realising the absurdity of the statement before he said it. Thomas raised his eyebrows and they both broke into laughter. "God, I need more sleep." He passed a hand over his face. "Shall we try to break your habit, anyway?"  
  
Thomas nodded silently and they both fell back into one another - then the pure silence of morning and black of sleep.

 

Philip stood before the mirror, ostensibly with the intention of watching himself - though his gaze was ribonned by its constant flickering to Thomas. Thomas stood against the wall, pale fingers running along the ivory handle of the razor, which he bothered absently.  
  
"Let me do it. I like to," Thomas said, reining his distant attention in to life. Philip looked at him inquisitively, to which Thomas only shrugged and extended the handle  of the razor. It was just as well for Philip to not; he was still feeling a little hazy about the edges. When he made no to move to take the thing, Thomas moved closer and turned Philip side-ways, hip pressing into the basin.  
  
"You're not secretly a cutthroat, are you?" Philip asked, the beginnings of a smile colouring his words. Thomas made no response, now apparently focused once more, and the cold line of the razor was brought down Philip's cheek in a few swipes. "Why do you like to?" He asked, once there was a safe distance.  
  
"It's relaxing, is all," Thomas responded, shaking the blade through the water. "I used to watch m'dad do it. Only time he were quiet." Another series of slow passes were made over Philip's skin. "I like the sound of it."  
  
It hadn't been a thing that Philip had ever taken especial note of - it had become so routine a thing as to fade almost entirely into the background.

For the first time, he listened to the sharp little sounds, the regularity in their repetition, watching as he did Thomas's somehow distant look of concentration. Before he found his fill of the sight, Thomas tilted his head back.  
  
"Were you fond of him?"  
  
"Don't talk," Thomas scolded. He drew the razor lightly down Philip's throat. "No."  
  
Philip wrapped his arms loosely around Thomas's middle, slipping his hands beneath his undershirt and resting his fingers along either side of the grooves of his spine. Philip focused his attention to the moment; it was soothing, if he let it be. Then, he doubted that it was purely the sound, so much as Thomas's gaze and soft hands, now imbued with a necessary delicacy of movement.  
  
Once done, and wincing from the sting of bay rum, he pulled Thomas into a tighter embrace and buried his face in his shoulder. Thomas kissed his neck and asked if anything was wrong.  
  
"Everything's marvellous. Ever so marvellous," he responded with a soft laugh, pulling away just enough to unmuffle his words. "I just love touching you."  
  
At that, he could feel Thomas relax further into him.

Philip was never touched like this and it seemed as though, this, if nothing else - the literal, physical draw - could keep them entwined further than the extent of their bodies. It was nonsense and it seemed as though his intellect warred with the rest of him on the subject - yet his flesh and spirit both so felt the truth of it that he allowed them to disregard any sober learning. It seemed perfectly reasonable that facts remembered should be overtaken by those learnt in a passion, as men loved should be loved.  
  
Then, what was left him was Michelangelo or Byron or Shakespeare, any name to justify the innate grandiosity the embrace seemed to swell in his chest. Were he a man in a novel, he'd rid himself of all other books. As it was, he was tied with a bitter force to reality; when Thomas left, he would inevitably feel the weight of his bookshelves upon him, chastising him for his rhapsody rather than his lover.  
  
Philip broke their embrace with a sigh. "I suppose we should finish dressing. Or you should, at least. I may just stay in 'til tonight."  
  
"In your undershirt?" Thomas asked, casting a smile over his shoulder as he made his way towards his clothing.  
  
"Perhaps. No one else will be around."  
  
"Lucky devil," Thomas replied, slipping into his shirt. His hands sped their way over the buttons and he pulled his braces up.  
  
"I'll have you know I lead an extremely wicked life."  
  
"I'm less impressed, remember?"  
  
Philip did, and looked to where he'd last seen the book only to find it had fallen onto the floor during their sleep. He picked it up and tossed it lightly across the bed. "Here. Take it with you when you go." He sat himself on the bed as well, and leaned against the headboard, watching Thomas continue dressing. "I've an idea you'll come back, regardless."  
  
"I shouldn't wonder at your ideas, with your mad novels."  
  
It was a sentiment which felt rather too appropriate just then; he knew Thomas was only making fun, but a frown overwhelmed the corners of Philip's mouth. "Well, novels are where we must take lessons in living, aren't they? Or thinking. You and I most of all." He spoke almost sharply and Thomas caught his eye with an odd expression. He shook his head, as though dislodging the fog therein. "Ah - I am sorry. I'm suddenly in a bit of a foul mood. Let's put it down to your leaving, shall we?"  
  
It was, in a way, true - Thomas seemed to be the stopper to what was real and it was sure to flood the place once he'd gone.  
  
Thomas turned his attentions away and his eyes dropped to bottle of oil from the night before, still on the floor. He picked it up and swirled it around, looking amused, before he opened it to let a couple of sparse drops fall into his hand. Once closed, he tossed it to Philip. For that more than anything, Philip was put to ease over Thomas not holding the clumsiness of the previous night against him; he could always take a joke.  
  
"Come to the House if you're lonely," Thomas said, slicking his hair back in the mirror.  
  
"God, no. I don't want to give the younger one any ideas," he said with a laugh. While he could just-short-of blank someone at a ball, he was hardly able to do such a thing in her home.  
  
"No one else does, either."  
  
"There you are, then."  
  
As he sat, Philip felt a craving work its way over him, which he first put down to cigarettes. More, what he wanted was the taste of bad cigaretes that played over Thomas's tongue. The desire pulsed to his fingertips and, in bringing them to sweep his hair back, seemed to sweep away his reticence. To Hell with later - he'd use later, when he was alone, to feel stupid over love. Not just then, as it was so sweetly incensing his rooms.  
  
"I like having you here. It makes the place seem so much more alive, even when you're away. Your memory is fine company."  
  
Thomas gave a sweet smile at that. "Well, come here. While I'm actually company."  
  
Philip began to walk over to him, but, on a whim, changed his path and went to his dresser. He looked over his cufflinks and quickly lit upon a pair which, while on the ornate end of simple, stayed clear of ostentation. Thomas was doing up his second cuff when Philip simply undid the first one and put the selected cufflink in.  
  
Thomas paused in doing the second one and blankly watched Philip take over. "Are you giving me these?"  
  
"I'm not making you my mannequin," he replied, putting Thomas's cufflinks on the table. He looked to Thomas uneasily; he wasn't one for begrudging gifts, but he didn't know whether Thomas would take it in the intended spirit or as a sign of some unpleasant trade  
  
"I don't, er," Thomas stammered. A faint blush rose to his cheeks and Philip felt immensely bad at so simple a gift having provoked such a reaction, though comforted that Thomas was clever enough to read their intent. He brushed the guilt away as quickly as it had appeared and asked if Thomas liked them.  
  
"I always liked them," he added.  
  
"They're grand," Thomas said, running his thumb along the gilt edge of one. "They're - yeh."  
  
"It's only fair," Philip said, breathing an inward sigh of relief as Thomas rested a hand against his face. Thomas drew faint circles against his neck."I get the memory of you whenever I'm in bed. You can have mine when you dress." He leaned into the touch and Thomas pulled him forward until their lips met almost roughly, though the succeeding movements were immaculately gentle.

Philip had come to notice that Thomas loved to lead anywhere he knew the paths and, god, he didn't mind following. He wanted to push Thomas onto the bed and undo all his precise dress, but kissing as they were - slowly, as though they had all the time in the world - was a different sort of pleasure, equally as perfect.  
  
"I think it's three," Thomas said against his mouth. "I need to go."  
  
"Ah, but the trains are always late," Philip said, tightening his grip on Thomas's waist; not down this path, not until the last possible moment. He could feel the hesitance run through Thomas's body and, then, the precise moment he acquiesced. They kissed again. "God, but I love you."  
  
Philip had genuinely meant to keep it sealed to the previous day, honest but possibly a part in a phantasmagoria. Yet Thomas kept looking at him so softly and kept touching and kissing him; with each instance, he grew further contented in damning any previous decision. He'd have time to meet up with them later. As it was, just then, he would have been quite willing to let Thomas call him by a different name, if the man so fancied.  
  
"I'm glad," Thomas responded, pressing his mouth to Philip's forehead. "And thank you," he said, pulling away to touch at the cufflinks again, flicking his gaze between them and Philip.  
  
"So long as you like them."  
  
"I do," Thomas said, looking endearingly chuffed. He glanced behind Philip to the clock. "I really have to go, though."  
  
Philip sighed, screwing up his mouth in displeasure. "Away with you, then," he said, brushing his hands outward.  
  
Thomas grabbed the book from the bed, then walked to the doorway and hovered there for a moment. "Show me out. You really must never host," he added, as Philip came up behind him. He grabbed Philip's hand and led him down the hall to the front door.  
  
"Next week," Philip said, once they'd come to a stop. They wrapped their arms tightly around one another and Thomas kissed a trail from the top of Philip's head to his lips. Again, they seemed to be caught there, trapped in one another, lips and tongues meeting as if for the first or the last time.  
  
Thomas rested their foreheads together with a sigh. "Next week," he agreed. He drew away and out of the flat, smiling back at Philip as he did so.  
  
Despite the reverence in which he held such a smile, Philip pushed his back hard against the wall and frowned to himself. He stayed there for a while, thinking nothing as much as everything, and meandered back to his bedroom, still in its dreamy disarray. He had insisted Thomas leave the things where they were, as it hardly mattered, but he wondered whether to pick them up himself. It was only down to his taste; quickly, he decided that he liked it as it was.  
  
He went to his scotch and took a large swig directly from the decanter, not specifying to himself whether it was hair of the dog or a way to stop his belly squelching in pain. He grimaced at the taste but enjoyed the pleasant burn as it dripped downward. After a moment's hesitation, he made his way back to his bed and flopped atop of it. His thoughts carefully unwound as he stared at the ceiling and he imagined them spread across its surface, for later. Later.


	10. Chapter 10

The Season was fading into its end, as seasons do, and the thought of it bit into Philip as each ball or dinner turned his days upon one another and stacked them neatly into history. At least, he supposed, they were diverting; he seemed almost constantly occupied by fiddling with arrangements even if he was home. He could sense a growing strain of annoy in Godfrey over the fact, but he bore the man's pointed looks to his back in order to avoid falling prey to the constant reading of the books which took such joy in impressing sobering lessons upon him.  
  
He'd written to his mother for the first time in months, asking her to send along his childhood copies of Edward Lear. When they arrived, there was no letter with them, just the note: _Having not heard from you in months, I can only assume that your wanting these indicates that you have quietly acquired both an heiress and your heir. Do bring them along next time you see fit to come to Crowborough._  
  
He crumpled the damned thing up and threw it into the waste-paper bin, unduly chafed at the note and, immediately, everything else.  
  
Relinquishing hold of the plans to Godfrey, he devoted himself to the lull of nonsense. He read those that had been his favourite pieces over until he had unintentionally committed them to memory, allowing him to forsake the actual books entirely. Instead, he lay on the couch reciting them to himself and when that grew tedious, he translated them into Greek.  
  
Still, running beneath the machinations of the absurd was that selfsame unease which he had begun the week with. Though he meandered along the paths forged by the σκώψ, in words, the ground therein threatened to give and crash him into murk.  
  
The murk waited around his edges and touched at him when he was faced with what lay prospectively before him; when the Season did end, Thomas would leave and that would seem to light something which threatened to burst.  
  
Philip thought, sometimes, that if his mother would have the good grace to die, he would breathe infinitely easier. While the riches had dwindled to an unnerving sum if one ran an estate and maintained several homes, he had an idea that they were enough to extend the length of his lifetime comfortably in a better place than in which he currently resided.  
  
In these ungracious moods, he blasted the the survival of the title. He didn't actually know whether it would die with him if he didn't produce an heir or if there was some Dickensian urchin who would suddenly find himself a duke. Being dead, he'd hardly find out. And, at the least, he thought bitterly, he'd have a chance of buying a small segment of history for himself if he were the last.  
  
Philip did find it fun, charming interesting women at parties, but it was all a game of cards - one may win a hand, but the deck eventually goes back and those winning hands summarily forgotten. He didn't want to go down any apparently primrose paths half so thorned as what marriage would prove, nor did he especially want to drag a woman into it unless she understood - and she wouldn't, could never.  
  
Spending half a century in a borrowed mask was not a thing he looked forward to, yet the mask had been forged, the constriction of its ties growing and he felt himself increasingly at a loss for movement beneath it.  
  
It was this stifling thing that left him so giddy at the purity of the air which Thomas kissed into his mouth. Neither seemed to bear the fraught of what lay outside of them when they were together and their days were made utterly unreal for it. Utterly unreal and more sincere than anything Philip had hitherto experienced.  
They didn't dither, neither did they lament nor fret - they existed, it seemed, unto one another alone. Dreams cast up into life, born knowing swathes of the other's history. He hated the idea of waking up.  
  
Yet the dawn approached and he wondered when it should cast its light over this sweetest sleep. He had been surprised that Thomas had put no mention of a nearing departure in his latest letter; perhaps he was just as wont to shut the shades and eschew the knowledge of dawn for a little longer. Which Philip certainly didn't mind.

 

 

While the sky outside seemed to be unsurely threatening rain, Philip's flat was thickly perfumed with the flowers he had bought on a whim and the place seemed brighter for it. From his couch, he stared at the strange clouds drifting along in the sky and continued his trajectory through Lear, focusing his attentions on newly-memorised poems.  
  
As he began the tale of a fellow from Brigg, the knock came to draw him into himself. He arose and made his way down the hall, opening the door and feeling his smile waiver slightly at the storm already evident in Thomas's eyes. As Thomas entered, he handed Philip the book he'd been leant.  
  
"That hardly deserved its scandal," was the greeting he received, from a voice wrought in displeasure. "Same as ever: Be the way we are and wind up with a bad ending."  
  
"We're too scandalous even to damn," he replied, watching Thomas remove his hat. "I imagine god himself blushes to think at what we've gotten up to. Not so bad an ending, then."  
  
"Do you believe in god?" Thomas asked, sounding surprised.  
  
"Only when it's inconvenient," he said wryly.  
  
Thomas gave a tight smile at that, which faded as quickly at it had arisen. In the successive silence, an unpleasant sort of tension wounds its way through the air, as though twisted up in the sweet fragrance. The lines of Thomas's body were tense and he was staring at Philip in an oddly beseeching manner, a port in his silent storm. Philip sighed; he was already tired of speaking above what they both knew.

"Say what it is that you're not. Tell me you're going."

"In a week and a bit, but this is my last half day. Oh," Thomas spat,  but I'll have an extra day once we're back to Downton. How bloody thoughtful of them. "

Philip felt a decided drop in his stomach, felt as though his insides were all retreating from the immobile form which housed them. This was different than he had expected; he'd expected some time - another day, at least. A shaft of light rather than this brutal flash.

"Let's - " he swallowed, drew his brows together over distant eyes. He looked at Thomas and managed, "Let's not spoil today, then. Hmm?" He smiled half-heartedly before he lit upon an idea, which eased the tension within him some. "Come into the sitting room. I've something I can show you."

Philip put the book that he'd carried with him on the table. going over to a short cabinet done in a rather ornate Oriental style. Thomas peered over his shoulder as he opened the top of it to reveal its purpose.

"Do you like music?" Philip asked, bending over to open the other doors.

"I suppose."

Philip bristled slightly at Thomas's apparent resolution to drift about in the gloom before it had even fully hit them. He flipped around in the book of discs until he found the song he was after.

"Do you remember the woman from The Criterion?"

"Yes."

"She showed me the absolute worst dance. I thought that she'd made it up, but it's rather a fad. You'll be so very modern," he teased, putting the disc around the little spike in the cabinet. He cranked its handle and directed, "Put your arms over my shoulders."

Thomas did so, amusement visibly warring with his displeasure. Philip was immensely pleased at this impending victory to keep pleasant.

"Not how you have them," he said, putting Thomas at arm's length and showing him the proper way to look a fool. Thomas snorted and copied him as Philip awkward reached to put the needle on the record. The warmth of the sound began to fade into the room.

Philip had only ever seen the dance (and everyone involved in the evening had been quite drunk), so the recreated movements were a bit of a mess - but he wasn't at all sure that they weren't meant to be. "I think," he said, changing their direction with increasing speed, "you're meant to shout something about bears, but I've forgotten."

"Are we meant to be bears?" Thomas asked, voice bumping over laughter.

"Well, I imagine so."

Before the song was quite over, the dance devolved into Philip roughing Thomas about while they struggled not to break apart with laughter. He manoeuvred them towards the couch and fell heavily atop it, pulling Thomas over him.

"You've caught me."

Thomas looked as though he were going to speak, but stopped. As he looked down at Philip, that slight fog threatened to reappear, before he was drawn down for a gentle kiss. He brought himself back up, straddling Philip's legs with one of his own left to an awkward angle against the floor.

Without removing the clothing, Thomas unfastened the joins running down the centre of Philip's chest, spreading them apart to reveal the next layer until he reached bare skin. He ran his fingertips down Philip's sides. "No undershirt?"

"It's not the weather for propriety."

"No," Thomas agreed. He shifted his weight upward so that he sat over Philip's hips.

Philip inhaled deeply at the pressure against his cock and made to pull Thomas over him, finding himself stopped. Thomas pressed his palms from the edge of Philip's waistband up to his collarbones. Thomas's fingers caught in the grooves of his ribs and kneaded between them, thumbs mimicking the motions over and around his nipples.

They held one another's gaze, Philip watching as Thomas's flush crept below his collar. He reached out to touch the dripping colour before Thomas turned his head to kiss his palm. Philip led his head back so their eyes met once more, sliding his hand along Thomas's jaw and running his thumb over his lips.

"Kiss me," Philip pleaded, as Thomas took his thumb into his mouth.

After a moment, Thomas lifted his weight. "Sit up."

Philip obeyed, their mouths meeting while their bodies pressed together. Thomas kissed him needily, threatening to knock him backward. He groped his hand over the back of the couch and held himself upright. Thomas's hands continued their ministrations, following the ribs back to his spine.

"Tell me how badly you want me," Thomas said against his mouth.

"You know how badly I want you," Philip responded, pulling Thomas's head forward so that his lips brushed his ear as he spoke. "You can feel how badly I want you."

"Mm, tell me again."  
  
"More than anything. You're the dream I wish for every night."  
  
At that, Thomas fell over him and regained his mouth. Philip's hands snaked into his hair and he held him tight, only reluctantly letting Thomas pull away when he fancied. He loved letting himself be had.  
  
"What do dream of?"  
  
"Nothing like you," he laughed, eager to recapture their kiss. Thomas pulled a little further back.  
  
"No. What really?"  
  
"Nothing. Childhood."  
  
"Do you ever dream of me?"  
  
"I have," he responded, Thomas's eyes burning brightly into his own.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It wasn't unlike this," Philip said and was rewarded when Thomas allowed for a glancing kiss, though only their lower lips seemed to meet. "But it could never compare. I can never forget," he started, running his hands though Thomas's hair and down to his neck,  "the feel of you as I can a dream."  
  
Thomas rested their foreheads together, breathing a little unsteadily. His eyes fluttered to a close. "I want you to fuck me, like before," he murmured.  
  
"Yes," Philip agreed. "Of course. Yes. God, Thomas you really are so lovely."  
  
"I'll bet you say that to everyone you bugger."  
  
"I don't bugger anyone but you. You are lovely," he said, pulling Thomas's head away from his so that they could focus on one another. "You're even lovelier than you know."  
  
An unmistakable warmth shone within their shared gaze and Thomas sat up once more, staring down at him.  A strange calm fell about them and Philip laced their fingers together, watching with a growing concern as the edges of Thomas's mouth twist and tighten. Thomas's eyes drifted upward, blinking rapidly, but when he made to bring his hands up Philip held them fast. Finally, their hands parted so that Philip could pull himself up.  
  
A wash of unease fell over him; he was never one for tears. The impulse had been frightened from him before it had ever become a habit. Dimly, he wondered whether it wasn't that Thomas had simply been left alone often enough to have never unlearned how to cry. He tried to find the appropriate response, but the awful thing that came to mind was, What did you expect?  
  
Then, one could only steel oneself so much in expectation of a blow. One could, perhaps, outrun it; they weren't allowed the chance.  
Philip brought Thomas's head level with his own and placed a kiss over his eyes in turn, kissing along their salt tracks to Thomas's lips, suddenly sweeter than they had even seemed. Thomas kissed him back softly, then pulled away, running the heels of his hands over his eyes roughly.  
  
"I'm being an idiot."  
  
"No," Philip quietly rejoined. He rested his head against Thomas's chest and listened to his heartbeat, waiting for the breathing to steady. "'These violent delights have violent ends', I suppose."  
  
"Is this an ending?"  
  
"I don't know," Philip sighed. He felt Thomas press his cheek against his head.  
  
"Well," Thomas said, clearing his throat and continuing strong, "if you swallow cleaning powders, I won't be following."  
  
At that, of all things, a jolt of absolute adoration throbbed against Philip's chest in time with his heart. He did love Thomas and that what was going to hurt so - the shared arteries of their hearts were to rip apart with distance. There was nothing to be done but regret the love and that seemed ungodly cruel, to the both of them.  
Despite himself, despite that sudden pained swelling against his ribs, he couldn't help but laugh at the comment. "That's dreadful."  
  
"So am I."  
  
"You're perfect."  
  
"You're not so bad yourself," Thomas replied.  
  
 "You're so damned smug," Philip laughed.  
  
"I thought I were perfect?"  
  
"You're something.  You're the - I don't know.  You're the easiest part of my week."  
  
Thomas brought Philip's head up and kissed him forcefully, slowly - as though there were no end in sight.


	11. Chapter 11

Philip lay between Thomas's legs, sucking little red marks into the pristine skin of his hips - drops of blood in cream, he thought - before he chased the flavour with his teeth and tongue. One of Thomas's hands was running absently through his hair, stroking him or pulling him away.

"I love the way you taste," he murmured against a blooming mark, lightly running his thumb up the length of Thomas's prick. He took the head in his grip and angled it towards him, passing the flat of his tongue over the beading fluid. A shaky sigh fell to his ears as he took Thomas into his mouth, sucking him until his cheeks hollowed.

He trailed his free hand over Thomas's chest, so lightly as to only make the smallest amount of contact with skin, running his nails over the nipple he met in time with a moan which vibrated from his throat. Philip released him from his mouth and kissed a trail upward, mimicking the motions of hish and with his lips, biting at the nipple when he came to it.  
Grabbing the vial of oil from the table, Philip unscrewed it and put the top on Thomas's forehead with a smile. Thomas smirked down at him while he pooled the oil into his hand, giving the bottle to Thomas so that he could close it.

Slicking his erection, he trailed his other hand over the curve of Thomas's arse and pressed against his entrance, teasingly. His eyes flickered up to his face, watching Thomas biting softly into his lip while he steadied his breath. He slid two fingers inside, slowly, opening him up until he felt that spot within him that made Thomas make the most exquisite sound from low in his throat.

Philip wanted to taste him again, to feel his prick hot against his tongue, but there was something endlessly enrapturing in watching the way Thomas's face changed and coloured when he was being fucked. He let Thomas fuck himself on his hand for a moment, until his own cock ached with the sight of it. Thomas grabbed onto his arm as he removed himself, and Philip laughed.

"Don't claw me this time," he implored, aligning their bodies. He pressed the tip of his cock against Thomas's entrance, liking the way Thomas rocked himself slightly. They both gave a groan when Philip pushed inside.

"Keep still," Thomas told him, though he pulled him down for a kiss. There was such a glorious array of heat around him - his tongue and his cock and the line that Thomas's burned up his belly, the squeezing of hands on his back.

Slowly, he rolled Thomas's hips backward into the bed. "Ah, you - " Thomas mumbled, tilting his head back and losing his words to a sigh. Their motions joined in small movements, and Thomas's hands gripped him desperately. Philip kissed at the base of his throat, feeling the vibrations of the moans and sighs against his lips.

That, Philip would think later, ought to have been all there was in the world - the pleasure of the mingling of skin and sweat, of hearts and heat. There could be nothing purer, more honest. He wished the churches would fall to the ground and their high-hatted clerics with them, so that decent men like them could sing their happy praises to Dionysos.

Even the knowledge that they were reviled didn't seem to cause such offense when they were wrapped together as they were - because all the rest had fallen away.

Philip pulled Thomas into a violent kiss and broke away from it as suddenly, lifting himself up slightly so that he could see him. He was destroyed with lust and so shockingly exquisite, both for and despite it; he panted through his kiss-swollen lips and looked at Philip with inky, glazed eyes.

Philip pushed the hair away from Thomas's face and received an odd sort of smile in return, which he kissed away with a hunger for its happiness. His kiss trailed down Thomas's jaw and throat, until he stopped and came with a moan against the soft skin of his shoulder.

Thomas's fingers stroked lightly at his hair, kissing into it while Philip remained as he was, recovering his breath

After he'd steadied, Philip drew himself down Thomas's body, once more tracing his path with lips and teeth. "Jesus, you're divine," he muttered, through a laugh, licking away the drops of fluid that had dripped from his prick. The laughter was soft, heady - there really was nothing so enjoyable as this, he thought, as he wrapped his mouth around the shaft.

It was hardly a minute before Thomas came against his throat, moaning in sobs above him. Philip rested his head on Thomas's stomach for a moment, before he moved back up the bed, laying next to him. Thomas turned onto his side, pulling Philip closer to him so that he could rest his chin on his head. They both lay quiet, still.

"I hate for this to end," Thomas said, finally. "I always - " He cut himself off abruptly with a sharp sigh and buried his face into Philip's hair.

"I know," Philip responded, wrapping his arms tightly about his lover.

He wondered why on earth everything seemed to be such a waste? It seemed like all the world while it went on, yet it was a secret with a date of expiration; what could be of less use than that? He wished he could extend it, to damn them all and keep Thomas, tie him to his own ages as Thomas's beauty had already tied to him to the world's.

Yet there was no means by which Philip could stave off his reality now that it pressed against even what he thought of as his happiest story.

 

 

They remained so entwined for as long as time would allow, pushing at the precipice of time in a way they wouldn't have allowed themselves on a more sensible day. Yet Philip longed to be insensible, longed to damn the world that so damned him; that he couldn't do. He could, however, happily let Thomas be a little late.

The dam of time had burst and so, of a sudden, they were awash in the shared points of their history. That seemed the thing to share now that their present had so faded. Philip had felt a certain reticence; their lives had been so different that he worried that he would offense, yet he realised that the trappings of childhood fell away and left them the tale of two boys much the same. The convergences were the only thing of import, the sorts of things that they could share with so few. The country was so speckled with men of their sort as it surely was with footmen and lords and dukes.

There was a necessity for a certain amount of haste and Philip found himself wishing to skip their parting and venture immediately forth into a sort of dull gloom, though Thomas desired to linger touches beneath sad eyes. So Philip let himself be led once more, pressing a painful embrace into Thomas's ribs - this pain altogether more bearable for its tangibility. Thomas shoved Philip backward into the wall with his body, forcefully enough that Philip's head knocked a picture frame from the wall.

They kissed with an equal violence, in a fit of desperation which spoke of anger as much as sorrow. Philip felt with a little shock as his lip split against the barrage and only sighed further into the kiss. Thomas drew away and darted his tongue over the blood.

"I'm sorry. Here," he said, grabbing Philip's arm and turning him to face the mirror. Philip caught Thomas's eyes in the mirror as Thomas spooned behind him. "Tell me a story," he said, leaned forward and traced the outline of Philip's face, leaving a fingerprint trail behind.

"There's a man with a very aggressive lover," Philip replied, half-smiling. He reached into his jacket for his handkerchief, wiping away the remaining blood that painted his mouth.

"That's not one of your better ones."

"I'm quite fond of it," Philip countered, inclining his head toward the flesh-and-blood Thomas behind him.

"Tell me a proper story, anyway. One I don't know," he added, smirking.

"There's a fellow rather upset with the dawn. He's grown so used to night that he wonders whether or not the sun will burn up his existence. Yet it's hardly his place to stop the sun from rising," he said, as a tight dread banded across his chest. He gave a humourless laugh. "There are some places where it's constantly night, but I don't think he'll manage that. And there's no scientific romance in all the world that fancies bringing England into darkness."

Thomas has been watching him in the mirror raptly and when Philip had finished speaking, their gazes caught once more. They remained still for a pleasant moment, before Thomas brought his lips to the join of Philip's jaw, then to the shell of his ear against which he spoke. "You'll just have to write to Wells immediately, won't you? See if he needs any ideas."

"I suppose I must," he sighed, letting the honied press of Thomas's lips to his skin overwhelm and sweeten his quick-rusting blood. He brought Thomas's hands up, placing a single kiss on each palm.

Holding Thomas's hand to the curve of his jaw, Philip turned around to face him. He trailed his mouth along Thomas's cheeks, his nose - only lastly meeting his lips. The kiss was excruciatingly soft, conciliatory. Their tongues met with unspoken promises or the sweetest lies, things that Philip doubed either of them could bring themselves to say. Still, they could impress them just as honestly in this manner, though it ached. After a moment, Thomas pulled away and Philip buried his face in his shoulder.

"What should we do?" Thomas asked into Philip's hair, wrapping his arms tightly about his waist.

"Write me when you get to Downton. We'll have a correspondence.Ah," he said, suddenly drawing away from the embrace. "Wait here a moment."

Philip made his way into the sitting room and stood at its centre, casting his eyes over the books lining the walls. Weeks ago, he'd stuck his first feverish missive to Thomas in a book with a yellow spine. He had thought it terribly funny at the time, but the book was not one that he visited often and he was left with little clue as to where it was.  
  
The letter was not quite one of love and foretold little of their time spent together, how perfectly they had seemed to fit. How sweet and rough, cruel and adoring all at once and all the moreso for being in one another's arms. Rather, this was a letter of brutal worship which Philip knew, as a begrudging undercurrent, that he oughtn't give away. Yet he wanted to wrap those haphazard words Thomas as tightly as skin, to remind him that he was the wickedest, loveliest saint known to man. The only saint Philip worshipped.

Finally, his eyes lit upon the book he was after and, reaching up for it, he plucked it from the shelf. The letter lay neatly inside, yet Philip's eyes scanned the words of the book itself. He lamented his lack of foresight in choosing a book in French; he would have given it to Thomas as a sort of joke: Go forth and sin. His eyes scanned his shelves once more, but was almost certainly making Thomas terribly late as it was.

He tossed the book onto a table, coming into the hall. Thomas still waited before the mirror, manoeuvring his hair back into place with his hands. Despite himself, Philip lingered at the jamb for a moment to watch before Thomas turned to him.

"Well?"

Philip closed the space between them and pressed the envelope against Thomas's chest with his fingertips. "Here you are."

Thomas looked down at it quizzically before he took it and placed it in his jacket pocket. "What is it?"

"Something sweet. Or salty," he added, with the beginning of a genuine smile. "I don't quite remember. I assure you that you'll like it, but you mustn't mock me for it later or I shall be terribly hurt."

"Is it a poem?" Thomas asked,the devious glint of forbidden mockery already showing in his eyes. Philip brought a hand behind Thomas's neck.

"Good lord, no," he laughed. "It really is just a letter. Though it's rather flattering, so I'm sure you'll enjoy it. It can be your reminder that someone realises enough to love you as you deserve."

At that, the amusement dropped from Thomas's face, his expression slipping into something Philip couldn't entirely read though he recognised the an ache behind it. Philip could only kiss him again.

"I have to go," Thomas said, voice thick but lacking intonation. He searched Philip's face for a moment and swallowed, sliding Philip's hand from his neck to his mouth. The blue eyes flickered shut for a moment and Philip felt a great heartswell at the sight. Thomas took a deep breath against Philip's hand, glancing at him from beneath his lashes.

"Away with you, then," Philip said, forcing a smile. Thomas bit the side of his hand softly, dropping it, and turned to walk towards the door with Philip in tow.  
  
It seemed an unbearable thing, to watch Thomas go with no promise of a return. Though he did fully intend to write, when the door closed behind Thomas it did feel to Philip like nothing so much as ending.


End file.
